


No Longer in Silence

by Black_Betty



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M, Historical Inaccuracy, Jane Austen - Freeform, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Period-Typical Homophobia, Persuasion - Freeform, Pining, Reunions, Romance, Separations, True Love, i'm sure - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-09 06:57:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1973235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Betty/pseuds/Black_Betty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been eight years since Charles has seen Erik. Eight years since they parted under unkind circumstances and Erik went off to sea. The boy he once knew is Captain Lehnsherr now and they are as known to one another as strangers, and yet--Charles finds that eight years has done nothing to diminish the feelings he had when he was 16 and in love. </p><p>It's unfortunate then that Erik doesn't feel the same way.</p><p>(Persuasion AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reunion

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [沉默不再](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2876216) by [Go_MrCactus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Go_MrCactus/pseuds/Go_MrCactus)



> I've been working on this over on tumblr for a while--it's entirely plotted out but I'm struggling through writing the last couple chapters right now, so I'm hoping that beginning to post this over here will help spur me on to finishing!! I should (hopefully) be able to post regular updates.
> 
> This is based on "Persuasion" by Jane Austen, though I've taken a number of liberties. You don't have to have read the book to understand what's going on here, but you should read the book because it's beautiful and so underrated!! My apologies for any historical inaccuracies you might notice...the lovely and wise madneto helped me with some of the cultural/historical aspects of the time period, but any remaining mistakes are my own!

 

Charles sat down for breakfast in the morning and listened with half an ear and a cautious heart to Marie’s recounting of the previous night. Like a coward he had told them he was unwell and unable to attend dinner, had sent Raven and Azazel on their way after convincing them that a night in and rest was all he needed. They had been glad for the respite and he had been weak with relief. Now he was grateful to have been excused from the dinner. Just listening to his cousin’s effusive praise of the apparent charms and numerous qualities of Captain Lehnsherr was painful enough.

Marie’s excited monologue was cut short at the sound of footsteps on the stone walk outside the cottage and then a sharp rap on the door. Before Charles could brace himself, or flee, Raven called for the visitor to enter. He knew it would be Lehnsherr before the man appeared before them, his knock as precise and sharp as ever, but he was still unprepared for Erik’s sudden appearance in the small kitchen.

And before Charles could brace himself, there he was, as though eight long years had passed in only the blink of an eye.

In many ways he looked just the same as the young sailor Charles knew once upon a time, and in many others he was entirely different. His features were more severe, weathered by the sun and salt spray of the ocean, his shoulders broader and figure more imposing in his navy officer’s overcoat.  And yet there was the same fire banked behind green glass eyes, the same clever slant to his thin lips, the same untamable auburn hair.

Charles felt his heart constrict in his chest, the room narrowing down to the two of them suspended in breathless eternity. Every aching moment he had pressed down under firm will and years of loneliness threatened to rise up and drown him in an instant. As he stood in greeting, he rested one hand upon the white linen of the table to steady himself, sure he would lose consciousness at any moment.

“Captain Lehnsherr,” Marie was saying, grinning broadly at him, “You remember Ms. Darkholme, my sister-in-law.” Lehnsherr bowed shortly at Raven and they shared a smile.

“And this is Ms. Darkholme’s brother, Charles Xavier, who is visiting from Bath.”

He looked at Charles then, finally, and Charles’ breath caught in his throat at the forceful weight of his attention. Lehnsherr smiled with only the smallest quirk of his lips, and there was no recognition, none of the fond familiarity that used to make his gaze unbearably bright when it fell on Charles in the past. He merely nodded shortly and said,

“Yes, Mr. Xavier and I have met before.”

Raven looked at Charles, surprised,

“Have you? Charles you never said!” Charles looked at her, and then at Marie who was gazing at him curiously, but he could not find the words to answer. Raven had been so young when everything had happened, of course she would have no memory of Erik coming to visit Charles, of their quiet conversations by the fire and their long walks through the woods. Only Erik and Charles knew how deep their connection had been. Only they knew how the irreparable the tear between them was now, standing a mere room’s width apart and as known to each other as complete strangers. Worse, because there would be no opportunity to grow in confidence and friendship, no chance of knowing the man Erik was now. He would never learn of the perils and hardships he had faced in the intervening years, nor any of the joy or triumph.

Charles felt, absurdly, like weeping. He had not felt the urge to cry for a very long time, not when his mother died, nor when his step-father gambled away most of the inheritance leaving them with only the small townhouse in Bath and the influence of their name and title.

Erik saved him the embarrassment and replied,

“Yes, well it was a long time ago. I’m sure Mr. Xavier has quite forgotten all about me.”

Charles opened his mouth to protest but Erik turned to Marie. His cold, dispassionate gaze brightened when he looked upon her, twisting something in Charles’ stomach.

“I came to take you up on your offer of a tour of the grounds, if you and your brother are still amenable?” Charles watched as Marie lit up, her young features bright and lovely in the early morning light of the kitchen.

“Oh yes, of course!” she said, “Azazel has gone into town but will be back shortly, I’m sure,” she looked to Raven for confirmation and Raven smiled and nodded.

“Ms. Darkholme, I’d be honoured if you’d attend us,” Lehnsherr prompted, “if you can spare an hour or two.”

Raven, who would trek across the entire countryside if set loose from the house, grinned at him with a certain amount of impropriety and agreed, acquitting herself from the room to make arrangements with the staff.

It left only Erik, Marie and Charles, and the kitchen seemed smaller somehow without Raven’s presence. Before the lingering silence could grow awkward, Marie spoke up excitedly,

“Oh you must come too, Charles!” Turning to Erik she said, fondly, “Charles so loves the outdoors. He’d spend ages out there if you let him.”

Charles saw Erik’s face begin to turn his way again and looked down to the hand holding his weight on the table. Unable to bear the burden of that cool and distant gaze, he missed Erik’s expression when he said,

“Yes, I remember.”

Charles looked to him then, but he had already turned back to Marie, taking his leave to return to the estate for some article of clothing he had forgot. Marie went with him after extracting a promise from Charles to join them for their walk when Azazel returned. Unable to deny her anything as always, he gave his assent though it hurt him to utter the words, to see Erik turn away, his face like stone.

When they were gone, his legs finally gave way and he sank back to his seat, the untouched breakfast before him turning his stomach. He pushed it away and rested his head in his hands for a moment, finding his breath. At least the worst was over. The first meeting was sure to be the hardest, the painful crack of ice before the water could run clean again and flood out whatever memory of friendship or love remained.

They could go on now as strangers.

And nothing more.


	2. Promenade

 

Charles loved the Darkholme family more than his own; he had known them for years and cherished the time he spent with them. That being said, he was currently regretting their acquaintance with every passionate fiber of his being.

The walk was interminable, branching off down every winding path Marie could spot amongst the trees. Normally Charles loved the outdoors, found that the quiet green field and richness of the earth refreshed and cleansed his mind whenever the burden of thought and memory weighed heavily on his shoulders.

Now the air pained him, seemed to drag like nettles through his lungs with every inhalation. He felt sick and lightheaded as he trailed behind the group, Azazel and Raven hand in hand and directly in front of him, Marie clinging with gloved fingers to the thick fabric of Erik’s sleeve.

They had been making light conversation for the duration of the walk, Raven and Azazel interjecting commentary and opinion here and there, but for the most part Erik seemed wholly charmed with Marie. And Marie was undoubtedly already smitten with Erik if the flush to her cheeks meant anything, and the coy dip of her eyelashes when he tipped his face toward hers. 

Charles was left to follow in their wake feeling odd and abstract, though hesitant to destroy their good time with his secret melancholy. He wished he could have hidden himself away in the library where the comfort of books might have soothed some of his hurt, and where he wouldn’t have to observe the way Erik’s hair shifted in the subtle breeze, or how his walk had remained utterly the same, still rolling and smooth as though he was navigating the deck of a ship as it cut through choppy ocean water.

Erik did not look his way, not once, but Charles was helpless to look at anything else.

So caught was he in the way Erik dismounted the rickety bridge at the edge of the Darkholme property and helped Marie over the last hurdle with a steadying hand, that Charles, last and left behind, missed his footing and tumbled clumsily down into the mud on the side of the small creek.

The world spun and reoriented itself in a sick moment of pain and humiliation. He managed to catch himself on his hands and spare himself the worst of the dirt, but his knee landed solidly in the soft, wet earth and was soaked through immediately. His ankle ached, but more visceral than any physical ailment was the nauseating embarrassment that rushed through his veins and burned across his cheeks.

He swallowed hard and pushed himself upright, distantly aware of Marie and Raven’s shock and concern, Azazel’s friendly teasing as he climbed down the bank of the river to where Charles was struggling to his feet. Anxious to be upright and as far away from the mud and mortification as possible, he stepped heavily on his twisted foot and nearly spilled over again.

It was a hand clamped tightly around his upper arm that stopped his descent and jostled a pained gasp from his mouth. He looked up expecting to see Azazel’s grinning, bearded face, but instead it was Erik looming over him. His expression was as platonic and stern as it had been all day when observing Charles, though his grip was firm and reassuring and his body was pressed close and warm against the chill of the afternoon.

He said nothing, merely maneuvered Charles through the worst of the mud and then handed him off to Raven who brushed at his clothes and worried over his injury until he pushed her away, assuring her with a laugh that the only thing wounded was his pride. When he looked to Erik again he was heading off across the fields once more, pointing out something in the tree line to Marie who smiled at him and laughed, and threaded her arm through his.

Later they wandered onto the grounds of the Summers estate where Azazel and Marie’s older sister Jean lived with her new husband. Raven and Azazel had been traveling at a sedate pace in deference to Charles’ twisted ankle, and when Azazel expressed an interest in going down to the great house to pay a visit, Raven looked at Charles with concern, opposition evident in her expression.

“You two go on ahead,” he said, smiling at Raven and patting the hand she had resting on his forearm. He detached himself from her and walked carefully over to a fallen tree nestled amidst the brambles, concealed by the outcropping of woods that divided the Darkholme estate from the Summers.

“I’ll be fine Raven,” he laughed when she looked ready to protest, and stretched his legs out in a masquerade of casual indifference. Raven nodded finally and allowed Azazel to tug her down the gentle slope of the field that led to the brown stone estate.

He could hear them laughing as they went, their levity echoing across the countryside amidst the sigh of the breeze through leaves. He leaned back on his hands, the bark damp and jagged against his palms, closed his eyes and listened to the murmured sounds of the outdoors, the intermittent call of birds in the hush. Allowed himself to be calmed.

After some time he could hear the sound of voices from a distance, growing louder as they moved closer. It wasn’t long before he could differentiate Marie’s charmingly raspy tones, and the lower, painfully familiar sound of Erik’s voice. He sat up and looked for them and saw them wandering across the low stone fence further down the green field, Marie balancing on the crumbling, slanted pieces of rock, her hand in Erik’s keeping her balanced as she placed one graceful foot in front of the other.

“Oh look!” Marie exclaimed, and Charles shrunk back in the trees, terrified for a moment that he had been spotted. He loved Marie like another sister, but the thought of being alone with the two of them right now was almost more than he could bear with his sore ankle and his bruised dignity, his head still spinning at the close proximity of Erik after all these years. Instead she turned and pointed down the field to the estate.

“That’s where Jean lives now! With Mr. Summers!”

“Jean is your older sister?” Erik asked, bracing her as she turned back and unbalanced, nearly falling over. She laughed brightly and steadied herself, and Charles felt his heart lurch as Erik grinned up at her and tightened his grip on her hand.

“She is,” she replied, continuing along the wall, “Married only last year. Do you know, we all hoped she would marry Mr. Xavier…”

“Oh?” Erik asked, his voice level and only politely interested as much as Charles strained to hear a touch of something more.

“When Raven married my brother, we sort of adopted _her_ brother as well. He is such a kind and even tempered man—I guess we thought he might officially become part of the family.”

Charles’ heart warmed at Marie’s words, pleased the Darkholmes thought of him so fondly. He knew the family had pinned their hopes on him for Jean, and in truth, part of him would have welcomed the companionship after years of painful self-imposed isolation. In the end he knew he couldn’t give himself to someone while his heart was still in broken pieces, miles away and adrift at sea.

He knew Jean had held a candle for him, and so it hurt him to put distance between them, to let her know as gently and inconspicuously as possible that there would be no proposal forthcoming. He comforted himself with the knowledge that it was for the best; that it would have been unfair to Jean to ask for her hand when he was so damaged and incapable of love. And in the end he had watched Jean and young Mr. Summers, freshly graduated from college, trade shy glances across a candlelit dinner table and knew he made the right decision.

“And why did he not?” Erik wondered, and Charles could see from his hidden vantage point that his brow still creased as it always did, drawing his eyebrows together. “I’ve heard your sister is lovely and quite smart, a good match for any man.”

Marie paused, lost in thought.

“I don’t know. He never asked, or made any overtures. They were quite close as friends but,” she shrugged. They continued to walk and Erik’s focus remained on the ground ahead of him rather than up at Marie who was picking her way carefully over a particularly decayed part of the wall.

“You said you knew Mr. Xavier a long time ago,” Marie said suddenly, peering down at Erik with keen interest. “What was he like? I’ve heard he was quite wild as a boy.”

Erik laughed sharply, as though the sound was wrenched from him with force.

“I’m afraid I didn’t know him that well,” he said finally, after composing himself, “But I must say, he is so altered now I hardly recognize him. He is quite changed.”

The words sunk into Charles like small sharp knives and he clutched at his arm reflexively as if to stave off the bleeding. He sat hidden in the brush and wished he were far away from the fallen tree and the sound of birds, their voices a hollow echo in his ears.

Marie, ever fanciful, said, “I’ve always imagined that Charles suffered some kind of trauma in his youth that made him so quiet. Raven says he used to laugh all the time, climb trees and run about town. She said he nearly drove his poor mother mad with his impropriety.”

Erik said nothing in return and Marie hopped down off the wall with the aid of Erik’s hands at her waist. The two of them strolled closer to where Charles was hidden amongst the trees and their conversation left him so addled he was very nearly found sitting stunned and eavesdropping, crouched in the woods like a bandit.

Fortune favoured him, for once, and Raven and Azazel returned at that very moment, calling out to Erik and Marie from across the field and drawing them away from the tree line. It gave Charles enough time to stand and redirect his feet toward a path leading in a circuitous route back to the main road.

He made the long trek back to the cottage alone.


	3. Dinner

 

Of course, he couldn’t avoid Erik forever.

Erik’s sister Ruth and her husband, an Admiral in the British Navy, had taken up residence in Kellynch Hall in Westchester where the Xavier family had lived for generations. Kellynch, though merely bricks, mortar and wood, had provided Charles with more warmth and comfort than he had ever received from his family. It had been home to him, and though it had been necessary for them to leave, the leaving had been very painful. The day that Charles arranged for their most vital possessions to be removed so that they might clear the way for tenants he felt his heart hollowed out with each successive room, the beloved paintings from his childhood covered over in white dust sheets, the books and papers in his private study boxed away or burned.

Kurt had balked at the idea of a Naval man living in the house of a Lord, but he had little choice in the matter and so allowed Charles to choose from the applicants as he saw fit. Had he known Admiral Croft was married to Erik Lehnsherr’s sister, he might have chosen differently, but in the end he found he could not have asked for better tenants. Though the passage his home into the hands of strangers had pained him, he was glad such an amicable couple were walking the old corridors, and eating at the ancestral dining room table.

New to the county and lovely as they were, however, meant that frequent visits and invitations to dinner were doled out between the Croft and the Darkhome families. And while Charles was visiting Raven to finish up his business in Westchester (and avoid Kurt and Cain for as long as possible) these invitations extended to him as well. He did not know how to refuse such kindness without seeming rude, and while part of him wanted to feign sickness and hide his face, another part of him wanted to seek the warm comfort of his old home, and yes, to see Erik again though it was obvious the man felt nothing but disdain for him.

He did not know how long Erik would be staying with his sister and as much as the mere sight of Erik made him ache with a strange, quiet agony, more pressing was his fear of the day Erik would leave again. Eight years had seemed like an eternity and he worried that if Erik left it would be another eight years before he saw him again.

And deep down even stronger than this was the fear, selfish and sick, that when Erik returned he would belong to someone else.

So it was that he found himself back in Kellynch Hall in the parlor that had been his mother’s favourite when she was alive, the Darkholmes mixing with the Admiral and his wife as though they were long time friends, Marie already ensconced by Erik’s side and bending his ear toward her.

Charles swallowed the silly lump in his throat and greeted the Admiral with a handshake, giving him all his attention and asking how they were getting along in their new home. Admiral Croft was a broad shouldered, red-cheeked man who seemed as capable of bouncing a baby on his knee as he did sailing a tall ship through a hurricane. He and his wife were the kind of people who seemed imminently dependable and kind, ready to listen to your problems and solve them for you. Charles was soothed by their conversation and within minutes of his arrival found himself sitting in his favourite chair by the fire as though they knew the worn, green damask wingback was the place where he had spent the majority of his childhood evenings curled up with a book.

The room buzzed with conversation as the company divided into small groups, but soon enough it was Marie and Azazel’s empathic argument about the recent engagement of a friend that drew everyone’s attention.

“Well I don’t care how much _security_ he can provide,” Marie was saying, colour high on her cheeks, “I would never marry for money!”

“Only true love for you, dear one?” Raven laughed, running a calming hand over Azazel’s shoulder while he glowered good-naturedly at his sister.

“And what’s wrong with that?” Marie asked, mimicking her brother’s disgruntled expression, “It is my firm opinion that people are far too pre-occupied with money and status when it comes to what _should_ be an affair of the heart.”

Azazel rolled his eyes and Raven swatted him gently, but it was Erik that smiled at her with clarity and affection and said,

“I am only too keen to agree with you Miss Darkholme. I think too often people are persuaded by the overwhelming will of money, or by the words and opinions of those they consider their betters.” As the words left his mouth he looked directly at Charles, his gaze suddenly as cold and penetrating as wind in the dead of winter. Charles felt cut to his very centre, his heart stopped frozen in his chest. Erik turned back to Marie and his expression softened so quickly that Charles might have thought he imagined the moment between them if not for the way his nails were digging painfully into the side of his thigh.

“You have a firmness of character that I admire,” he concluded.

Marie blushed prettily while Azazel took up the thread of the argument once more, but Charles heard nothing but the rushing of wind in his ears. He had not recognized until that moment the flickering candle of hope he had held safe within his breast. The hope that one day Erik might grow to tolerate him; that they might become, if not friends, casual acquaintances. He had not known how desperately he wanted to hear something sweet from Erik’s mouth until this painful moment when he knew that any and all avenues to friendship were utterly washed away. And as that flame of hope sputtered and died, Charles mourned the loss of it in one all-encompassing moment that seemed to swallow up him, reminiscent of the days when he lost Erik the first time.

When the housekeeper entered and announced dinner and he stood quickly, eager to escape the suffocating confines of the room. Mercifully, he was seated far away from Erik at the dining room table, found himself sitting next to Erik’s sister instead, her broad, open face a welcome respite from his private heartache.

Ruth Croft had inherited little of the sharp, angular beauty her younger brother possessed in spades, but what she lacked in aesthetics she made up for with a keen mind, an iron will, and an open and loving heart.

She also was in possession of a wild, audacious spirit, something she _did_ have in common with Erik. Charles had heard through the gossip mill that the Admiral was notorious for taking his wife with him across the sea though it was uncommon and sometimes thought of as unlucky amongst sailors. She had traveled to places Charles had only ever dreamed of, tropical and exotic lands he had only read about in books, and at his prompting Ruth regaled him with stories of her adventures.

“When he asked me to marry him, he promised me the world.” She said, folding one hand over the Admiral’s and smiling at him warmly. “He has not failed to deliver.”

“I can’t imagine it,” Mrs. Darkholme exclaimed, shaking her head, “dragged to and fro, never putting down roots. Do you never get sick of the endless water?”

“I would think the most tiresome thing would be the conversation of all those men,” Raven said with a grin.

“Well,” Ruth laughed, “It is a nice change I must say, being here and settled for a while, but…”

“But why stay in one place when the whole world is out there, waiting,” Charles finished for her, unable to keep himself from interrupting. Her stories had seemed to fill him up to the brim with the same wide-eyed wonder he had felt as a boy, reading the tales of Jonathan Swift or Defoe or Cervantes, imagining he was Don Quixote tilting at windmills.

Ruth looked at him, surprised and pleased, and the Admiral asked,

“Have you travelled much, Mr. Xavier? You sound as though you have the spirit for it!”

Charles shook his head and looked down at his half-eaten plate of food uncomfortably aware he had acquired the attention of the entire table.

“No sir, not nearly as much as I would have liked to.”

“The Continent? Or maybe Ireland?” the Admiral prodded, and Charles shook his head,

“Unfortunately there were family matters that kept me close to home.” Raven reached over to touch his hand and when Charles looked up he caught the Admiral’s expression, torn between empathy and awkward regret that he had inadvertently dredged up a painful topic. Charles was more than willing to set the man at ease and so he smiled at him and continued,

“I did manage to complete my studies at Oxford, so I’ve broadened my horizons just the slightest bit.” Though he loved his time at Oxford, he was embarrassed to compare it to India or the Americas, or the kinds of exotic places the Crofts had visited. The table eased, however, at the mention of his schooling and he was glad to open a new vein of conversation. 

At least he felt confident talking about his studies, his one source of joy in the intervening years since his youth and Erik. His time in Oxford had afforded him space after the death of his mother, a place to bury himself in work and refocus, a welcome diversion after his self-indulgent wallowing. Three years had seemed to slip by in an instant, and before long he was being called back to Westchester, told in no uncertain terms that a Lord had no need of further education.

He shook himself from thoughts of his stepfather, and the cold reality he faced in the years following the bright, boundless joy of Oxford where he was able to bury his sorrow for a while. Instead he asked the Crofts if they had read any recent publications on the advancements in the fields of ecology and biology.

"There is a new theory they're calling ‘evolution,’" he said eagerly, "It's fascinating--" he cut himself off when Raven nudged him, realizing that his audience was looking at him in bemused bewilderment. He felt himself flush.

“My apologies, I can get...over-excited.” HIs sister laughed loudly, acknowledging this as an understatement, and he poked her in a good-natured rebuff. “It’s just," he continued, "I can only imagine the kinds of vegetation and geological life you must encounter overseas. It must be astonishingly different than what we see here in England.”

“I must confess, I don’t really pay attention to the plants,” the Admiral said teasingly. Charles laughed and moved to apologize again, when—

“The birds,” Erik said suddenly. The attention of the table shifted in his direction, and Charles found himself looking at Erik for the first time all dinner. He looked mildly uncomfortable, but he fixed his gaze on his sister and continued, “the birds are…different. Colourful.” His eyes flickered over to Charles for a breathless second before he looked away again.

There was a pause before Ruth agreed with her brother, starting in on a story of a man who kept a bright green parrot for a pet, allowing it to perch upon his shoulder as he marched along the docks in a portside Caribbean town. The company laughed as she began to regale them with the bird’s antics, but Charles was lost within his own thoughts again.

In his mind, outlined sharply, was a memory of the twisted limbs of the apple trees in the hidden glen and lying with his head propped against Erik’s chest so he could feel each slow inhalation of his lungs. The sky was bright and blue in his mind’s eye shown only in patchwork because of the pattern of leaves overhead. Caught fluttering there and there in the canopy was a plain brown Thrush and he remembered placing his fingers over Erik’s mouth so they could hear her sing. He had read in a book that the song of the genera _Turdus_ was known to be the most beautiful in the world, but in that moment he had only been aware of the warm breath against his fingertips, hot and damp, and the way Erik had looked up at him, trapped beneath his body.

Erik was looking away from him now, wrapped up in conversation at the opposite end of the table, but Charles’ treacherous heart had begun, painfully, to beat once more. And pitifully, unwillingly, he felt the flame of hope, recently extinguished, reignite itself again.


	4. A Trip

 

Charles was sitting down for breakfast when Marie burst into the kitchen unannounced, startling him and nearly causing him to lose his seat, the teacup in his hand tipping over with a splash and a rattle.

“Marie!” Raven laughed from her seat at the table, one hand to her breast, “What on earth…?”

“Apologies,” she said, breathlessly, bobbing a hasty curtsy in Charles’ direction, “Raven, is Azazel in? I must speak with him at once—it’s so exciting—“

“What’s so exciting?” Azazel asked, stomping through the garden door and scraping the mud off his boots, his hounds squeezing past him to run to Charles and Raven for a scratch and a scrap of bacon off the table.

“Mr. Lehnsherr has offered to take us,” she glanced excitedly over at Raven, “all of us to visit his friend down in Lyme! Oh Az, mother says I can go as long as you and Charles agree to escort Raven and I…?”

Charles looked up from the hound drooling happily on the knee of his breeches, and asked, surprised,

“What? Surely Mr. Lehnsherr has not invited me as well.”

Marie scoffed and waved him off,

“Of course he has, he invited the family and you are family.”

Charles was nearly certain Erik had _not_ included him when he extended such a generous invitation, but he did not want to dash Marie’s excitement so readily. And selfishly, he wanted to preserve that weak flame of hope he stupidly maintained despite the continuing distance between him and Erik after dinner at the Crofts.

Despite what Erik had intended, or Marie had misconstrued, the next day Charles found himself seated next to a stone faced driver atop a carriage packed with luggage, with Raven, Azazel, Erik and Marie tucked inside, nestled closely two by two.

Though his family would insist it was highly improper for a man of his station, he liked riding out in the open air in the silent company of another. He was sure his mother would have had a fit if she could him now, sitting up top of a carriage like a common workingman, but he liked the sun on his face and the way the wind tugged at his hat. He liked that he could smell the ocean air from miles away, salty and crisp, fresh on his tongue and in his lungs.

Erik had frowned at him when he had clambered up, had cleared his throat and asked Charles if he wouldn’t rather ride inside with Raven, but even Erik’s disapproval hadn’t been enough to dissuade him. He did feel a pang, here and there as laughter filtered up to him from inside the carriage, and when his treacherous mind imagined Erik pressed close against Marie, their legs tangling across the seat, Erik reaching out to brace her when they lurched over a rut in the road. The air helped in those moments, and he closed his eyes and let the sun warm his face, bursting against his closed eyelids in a brilliant array of colour.

He was sure he looked a mess by the time they arrived in Lyme, windswept and sunburnt, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He climbed down from his seat and looked out across the ocean, felt invigorated and alive.

“Oh Charles, your face!” Raven exclaimed as he helped her down from the carriage. “I always forget how many freckles you have there.” She swept one finger teasingly across the bridge of his nose and he felt himself blushing, turned away only to be confronted with Erik’s placid stare sweeping over his face.

Charles waited for a comment, but Erik said nothing. Instead he turned away and offered an arm to Marie with an upbeat, “this way,” to the rest of the party, leading them toward the Inn where they would be staying, and where he had arranged to meet his acquaintance.

Erik’s friend in Lyme was a man named Logan Howlett who had served with Erik for years in the Navy. He was handsome in a rough, grizzled kind of way; the kind of man who looked unshaven no matter how clean and smooth he attempted to keep his face. He had scars on his cheek and a limp that he held steady with a cane, navigating the outcropping of stone along the pier with strength and ease as he walked them along the ocean later in the evening as the sun dipped toward the horizon.

He was solemn and quiet though he treated them all respectfully, and Erik with a strange fondness borne out of years kept in close company and through combat. Marie had informed them all of Mr. Howlett’s tragic tale in hushed tones the night before they set out to Lyme, how he had loved a women and married her, and how she had died while he was stationed out at sea. Charles didn’t know how much of this was truth and how much was Marie’s fanciful imagination, but could see sorrow in Mr. Howlett as they meandered along the shoreline, and so he hung back as the others rushed ahead to look at shells and pelicans and walked with the man as he leaned a little more heavily on his cane.

“It’s beautiful here,” he said after a time of peaceful silence, broken only by the break of waves along the shore. “It must be nice, being so close to the water.”

Howlett nodded,

“Yes, though I must admit I struggled with it—being close to the water and not out in the thick of it, wind in the sails and all that.”

It was the most he had spoken to anyone outside of Erik since they had arrived and Charles felt encouraged.

“What do you do to pass the time? Now that Napoleon isn’t demanding your presence out on the water?”

Howlett’s smile told him he knew Charles was aware that it was his leg and not the end of the war that forced him onto land, but he only replied with,

“Poetry.”

Charles wasn’t sure what expression had crossed his face, but it was sufficient to make Howlett laugh, and laugh loudly enough that the rest of the party turned back to look at them from further down the beach.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” Charles stuttered, “I didn’t think—“

“What, that a man like me would like poetry?” Charles felt his face heat and emphatically shook his head,

“No, of course not.”

Logan chuckled and clapped him roughly on the back,

“Not to worry, it wouldn’t be the first time I got that reaction. Kayla could never get used to my piles of books…” He trailed off abruptly and grew somber again, and Charles, loathe to lose his good humor so swiftly gently prompted,

“What is your opinion then on the latest efforts of Lord Byron?”

Howlett scoffed.

“Bryon and the lot—a bit too romantic for my taste. Give me Pope or Swift over Byron any day.”

Charles siphoned through his memories of College and pulled forth a snippet of something useful,

“Go, measure earth, weigh air, and state the tides; instruct the planets in what orbs to run, correct old time, and regulate the sun…”

Howlett looked surprised, and then pleased.

“Well done, Xavier.”

Later that evening when they retired to the Inn, Howlett and Charles ensconced themselves at the end of a rough wood table close to the fire and debated poetry into the dark hours of the night. While the man refused to budge on his love of the more practical, rational poets of years past, Charles thought he had nearly managed to sway him toward some of the new romantics, Keats at least, even after several traded stanzas that Howlett managed to shred to pieces.

“How about this,” Charles asked, eager and ensnared in their exchange, “ _What though the radiance which was once so bright /be now forever taken from my sight, though nothing can bring back the hour/ of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; we will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind_.”

Even as he spoke the passage caught him off guard, the words drawn out of his chest like a wounded, aching vein plucked strait from his heart. Wordsworth was at times overly sentimental even for Charles’ taste, but this particular segment had been of great comfort to him in the dark moments of the past few years.

He had foolishly neglected to think, however, of the effect the words might have on Mr. Howlett. His similarly wounded heart had been forgotten in the vigorous debate of the evening and Charles felt immediate regret at the way the man’s face paled and grew taught. He cursed himself and the loose tongue that seemed to be constantly getting him into trouble, even now at 24 when he was suppose to be a man and past such stupidity.

“My friend, I shouldn’t have—I’m sorry,” he started but Howlett cut him off, placing a heavy hand on his arm.

“No,” he said, his voice choked and rough, though he quickly swallowed down any emotion and continued levelly, “No, I think you are quite right about that one.”

Their conversation continued amicably after that, some new profound and unspoken bond settling in between them. At one point in the night Charles glanced up to where the others were ensconced in a game of cards at the other end of the table and found Erik looking his way, his mouth soft and almost smiling. Though Charles assumed it was for his friend Mr. Howlett and not himself, it still filled him with bright warmth, more heady than the roaring fire at his back.

The night was pleasant and genial and as close to perfect as he’d had in a long while, right up until Raven took his arm as they headed up the stairs toward bed and asked him, “When do you think Mr. Lehnsherr will propose to Marie? He seems quite taken with her.”

He was unable to answer, could only shrug at his sister before bidding her goodnight, his heart plummeting into the pit of his stomach to be disintegrated into stinking bile, leaving him breathless in the darkness of his rented room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first bit of poetry Charles quotes to Logan is from Alexander Pope's "An Essay on Man."
> 
> The Wordsworth stanza is from "Intimations of Immortality"


	5. A Fall

 

The next morning dawned bright and clear, though for Charles the sorrow of the previous night lingered like fog in his memory. As their small company left the Inn in the morning to further explore the seaside, he left his hat behind and allowed the heat and salt air to cleanse his mind of dark thoughts.

His day was made substantially brighter when Erik slowed his pace to walk beside him.

“It’s been a long time since he spoke so freely, or so often,” he said quietly, looking not at Charles but ahead to where Logan had allowed Marie to take his arm and was directing her eye toward something along the coastline. Erik glanced down at Charles for a moment, and for the first time his piercing gaze was warm and nearly kind. “Thank you.”

Charles couldn’t think of a word to say, his tongue dry and clumsy in his mouth. Before he could tell Erik how much he had genuinely enjoyed Mr. Howlett’s company in return and that it was no hardship to speak of poetry, Marie was calling for Erik excitedly, pulling him away from Charles’ side.

He followed behind disappointed at the missed opportunity, but buoyed up by Erik’s kind words nonetheless.

They meandered up and down the shoreline as the day grew warmer, coming close enough to the water’s edge that Charles could feel the spray against his cheeks. The coastal promenade in Lyme was a series of charming stone outcroppings, some leading out to an abrupt end in the ocean where the breakers crashed over the vanished edge, others connecting to one another in a series of steps.

They had just climbed down one set of these steps to get closer to the water when Charles heard Marie call out,

“Captain Lehnsherr! If I fell would you catch me?” When Charles turned she was standing on the middle step, close enough to the ground that he smiled at her game and watched with amusement as Erik held his hands out and responded wryly,

“Miss Darkholme, I would do my utmost.” She leapt lightly from the wall then and the group laughed and applauded them both as Erik caught her easily and made sure she was steady on her feet before releasing her hands.

Marie was flushed with good humor and the heat of the day and Charles caught her mischievous grin as she raced back up the steps, this time to the very top. Marie had always been light on her feet, and Azazel had barely a moment to shout at her to stop before she was jumping again, this time too far away for Erik or anyone to catch.

Charles saw her hair haloed by the sun and lit like an auburn flame before she fell and landed in a crumpled heap of wrinkled linen and silk on the stone pavement, her limbs thrown horribly askew and unmoving.

They stood frozen for one terrible minute and then Raven screamed, all of them moving at once in a panicked frenzy. Erik and Azazel rushed to Marie’s side, but Charles could see the shock on their faces and in the way their hands shook and so he waded in past them, pushing them aside.

“Give her some space,” he said evenly, keeping his voice as calm and level as he could under the circumstances, “don’t move her until we know the extent of her injury.” He gently probed along her neck and shoulders, but nothing felt broken or out of alignment. He bent close and laid a gentle hand on her chest and allowed himself one all-encompassing swell of relief at the shallow intake of breath through her mouth and into her lungs.

When he looked up the others were pale and gaping at him, and when he asked for someone to go and get a doctor, he took care to make his voice sharp to penetrate their shock. Erik nodded, and stumbled to his feet, but Charles reached out and grasped his wrist to hold him by his side.

(It was forgotten in the sick panic of the moment, but later Charles would realize that this was the first time they had touched in 8 years.)

“No, not you,” he said, looking around and spotting Mr. Howlett standing grim and petrified to one side, “Mr. Howlett, a doctor to the Inn please! You know the quickest route.” Howlett snapped to attention at once and took off, his cane in one hand, the pain in his leg seemingly forgotten. Azazel had wrapped a weeping Raven in his arms, and so Charles turned back to Erik, and tried to keep his voice low and firm.

“We’re going to gently lift her up and move her to the Inn, alright?” When Erik glanced down at Marie, uncomprehendingly, Charles gripped him tighter about the wrist and said soothingly, “Erik.”

Finally Erik looked at him, really _looked_ at him, and something seemed to break in his expression, his eyes suddenly sharp and clear. He nodded and Charles released him, helped Erik lift Marie gently into his arms and guided the group through the gathered murmuring crowd down the stone pathway that led them swiftly back to the Inn.

***

After the doctor had come and gone and told them there was nothing more to do but wait for Marie to wake up, Charles sat by her bedside and ran a cool cloth over her forehead and tried to ignore how pale her skin was.

One of the maids had left a stack of folded quilts at the foot of the bed and he stood and shook one out, laying it over the bed carefully and gently tucking around Marie, making sure no space remained for even a whisper of cool air to slip through. He sat back down at her side and began to gently plait her hair over her shoulder so it wouldn’t get tangled beneath her back. Behind him Raven sat wearily by the window and Erik by the door, while Azazel fretted and worried his way across the hardwood.

“Someone needs to go and inform mother and father,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically fractured and unnerved.

“Charles,” Raven requested and Charles looked up to his sister. Her eyes were wet and beseeching and he nodded and gently finished Marie’s braid, laying the coil of dark hair across her shoulder before getting to his feet.

“Charles should stay here,” Erik interrupted abruptly, and they all looked at him, none more surprised than Charles himself, his name sounding strange and foreign in Erik’s mouth. Erik looked momentarily uncomfortable at his outburst but he pressed on, “He’s the most adept at caring for Marie, he should stay at her side.”

Azazel turned toward him, incredulous,

“Charles isn’t family! She should be with her family—“ his nerves, clearly shredded to fine pieces, strangled his voice until it slowly rose in a mildly hysterical crescendo. Charles intervened before things could get more heated.

“I will go to Uppercross and speak with Mr. and Mrs Darkholme—Azazel and Raven should remain here so that Marie sees familiar faces when she wakes.”

The tension in the room eased slightly, and for once it seemed that Charles had managed to say the right thing. 

“I’ll come with you,” Erik said, surprising Charles for the second time in a matter of minutes.

“There’s really no need—“ he began, but Erik was emphatic, and resolute.

“You shouldn’t have to travel alone, not after today.”

***

There were racing off into the night within the hour in a weathered cabriolet pulled by a horse on loan from Howlett. The man himself had seen them off, silently clasping their hands and watching them depart from the shallow pool of light outside the Inn, a solitary figure leaning heavily on his cane.

The air was damp and cold, heavy with the promise of rain, and Charles pulled his coat tighter around his body to guard against the chill. Erik’s gloved hands were steady on the reins as they galloped along, and with anyone else Charles might have been afraid of the breakneck pace or the shadows of the forest on either side of the road, but Erik was still the best horseman he had ever known. And though there was an awkwardness between them, a distance, Erik still had the ability to make him feel safe.

It was impossible to ignore, however, that for the first time since Erik had slipped effortlessly back into jagged pieces that composed Charles’ life, they were _alone_. Charles tried to focus on what was important: Marie, ordering his thoughts so that he might explain matters to the Darkholmes without needlessly upsetting them further, the bite of cold on his cheeks and fingers. Even the ominous threat of bandits and highwaymen still lingering in his subconscious from childhood storybooks.

It was hopeless.

He was all too aware of the stretch of fabric over Erik’s thigh, and how their legs were pressed close together, of the way that Erik gripped the reigns with his long fingers and murmured words of encouragement and calm to the horse. He couldn’t help but notice the way their shoulder’s brushed and how he could nearly feel the heat of Erik’s body through his coat, or the way the lantern swinging wildly from its post illuminated the sharp angles of his face, his concentration and intense focus as attractive as it always was.

And all too present was the weight of the past. How many times had they gone for rides like this as young men? Off on adventures, just the two of them, looking for time and space in the countryside to be alone…

So busy was he trying to think of anything but Erik, and so consumed with Erik despite his efforts, that when Erik spoke to him he nearly jumped out of his seat.

“You knew what to do,” he said, and while his eyes remained fixed on the road, Charles felt the weight of his attention, the full mesmerizing depth of it for the first time since Erik had returned. He had yearned for it and feared it equally, and now he was at a loss for words to give Erik in exchange.

“I very rarely know what I’m doing,” he answered finally, looking for levity to ease the weight of their private moment, the silence and hush of the world around them. Whatever game he was trying helplessly to begin, Erik refused to play.

“With Marie, you knew exactly what do to--not just…not just when she fell, but afterwards. You…” he trailed off and just when Charles thought he wasn’t going to finish, he said, “you braided her hair.”

Charles closed his eyes. This wasn’t something he ever intended on Erik knowing, or caring about, but he was sitting silent and patient as he had never been as a young man waiting for Charles’ response, and Charles owed him that much.

Owed him so much more than that, really.

“My mother,” he said, “She was ill, and before she died…I took care of her.” He breathed in and tasted rain instead of the stale air of a sick room, the acidic smell of putrid flesh and vomited alcohol. He sighed.

“I guess I became accustomed to it.”

Erik was silent for a long time before he said,

“I’m sorry.” When Charles didn’t respond because any words he might have said to that were lodged in his throat, sharp and immovable, Erik continued with uncharacteristic gentleness, “When did she die?”

Charles wanted desperately to look at him and gage his reaction but he couldn’t. He could only stare off into the impenetrable night as he said,

“I had just turned eighteen.”

There was only silence after that, though the weight of Erik’s surprise was palpable. They spoke no more until they reached Uppercross, and Charles imparted the disturbing news of Marie to Mr. and Mrs. Darkholme, the burden of his words made easier by the tangible presence of Erik at his shoulder. The couple was understandably frantic and upset and immediately began to make hasty travel plans to be with their youngest child.

Amid the flurry of activity surrounding their departure, Erik saddled Logan’s horse and prepared to head back to Lyme to bring news of the Darkholmes’ impending arrival and make arrangements for their stay. Charles watched his fingers move swiftly along the leather halter, the girth of the saddle and felt, for the first time since Marie fell, helpless and frayed, uselessly adrift. He wanted to say something to Erik, wished without hope or pretense that Erik might say something to him, but no words were spoken. There was only Erik swinging himself into the saddle and directing the horse toward the gates.

But there was one moment in the dark and frantic courtyard, as rain began to fall, that Erik looked back at Charles and their eyes met. And for that one moment, it seemed as though the unbearable divide of time and space had collapsed between them and they were young men again. Erik seemed attainable, familiar and close enough to touch.

And then he was gone, riding off into the night.


	6. Family

 

Charles lingered at Uppercross while he waited for news from Lyme, though the empty, echoing halls did nothing to ease his anxiety. He felt helpless, being so far away and with no one to comfort. When Raven finally sent word that Marie had awoken and been safely moved to Mr. Howlett’s home to recover, Charles looked for someone to share the happy news with and found himself alone. He knew then that he had outstayed his welcome.

And so begrudgingly, and with a heavy heart, Charles journeyed to Bath where his stepfather and stepbrother had set up house in a part of town they could no longer afford.  

There was no warm welcome for him when he arrived. The servants and staff were stone-faced and unknown and so different from the staff at home, employees that had known Charles since he was a boy and were as familiar to him as any family member. In addition to the dour butler that proceeded him up the stairs to his room, the house in Bath had none of the warmth or history of Kellynch hall, a skeleton of marble pillars and cramped couches, his room stripped of all comfort and full of empty bookshelves.

After stowing his bags he was immediately called before his stepfather who made a special show of ignoring him in favour of delicately cracking his hardboiled egg. Cain sat with his father at the breakfast table, hunched over and gloomy as ever, glaring at Charles from underneath heavy eyelids.

“It’s about time you showed up, Charles,” Kurt said, spooning a bit of egg into his mouth and patting his lips with a white silk napkin that seemed especially ostentatious for a mid morning breakfast. “You have duties here you know. We can’t all spend our time tromping through country mud like your sister.”

Charles bit the inside of his mouth and nodded.

“Of course. My apologies for the delay.” He thought about mentioning Marie’s accident as a further explanation, but his stepfather cared little for excuses, and even less for the well being of those in a lesser station than himself.

“Yes, well.”

He continued on with his meal, slowly sipping his tea while Charles stood sentry by the door, waiting to be dismissed. This was one of Kurt’s favourite games to play with Charles when he was a boy, leaving him dangling at his leisure as a way of reminding Charles who was in charge. The longest duration of this arduous pastime had been four hours one cold afternoon in December, Charles waiting by the drafty window within Kurt’s study while Kurt perused the newspaper at length. At the very least, it demanded that Charles learn the saintly art of patience, something he was thankful for now when he was weary and frustrated and ready to say something he would surely regret.

Fortunately this time the game lasted no longer than fifteen minutes before Kurt sighed and pushed his plate away, slowly draining the dregs of his tea as he peered shrewdly at Charles from over the porcelain rim.

He set the cup down and folded his hands neatly under his chin.

“Tonight you are to attended a social function hosted by Mr. Stryker. I expect you to be clean and polite and as charming as you can manage, and I want to hear nothing about birds or rocks or whatever it is you learned in that infernal school.”

“Do you mean Oxford, sir?” Charles asked, unable to suppress the question or the bite in his voice. Kurt’s gaze turned sharp and cold, the expression alone enough to remind Charles of welts across his palms, of bruises on his back where they were sure to be hidden.

“There is going to be a Lady in attendance tonight,” Kurt continued coldly, “A Baroness whose husband is recently deceased. She inherited a great deal from the man, and word has it that she is no longer in mourning dress.”

Inwardly Charles sighed. He had hoped he might get a reprieve from society for just one night, but if Kurt had some machinations in play, some poor woman upon whom he wished to foist his stepson, there would be no escape.

After pressing upon Charles the magnitude of the Lady’s wealth, and how direly they needed a fresh infusion of income into their desolate household and a new shine on their tarnished name, Charles was free to flee the room without breakfast. He took the opportunity eagerly, shutting himself away and scouring over the books he had lugged with him from Uppercross. He tried not to think about Erik and Marie in Lyme or his abrupt separation from them, tried to forget about the forthcoming party until a strange and stern faced valet came to dress him in one of his finest suits.

***

The Stryker residence was modern and opulent in the style of the nouveau riche, and the white, vaulted ceiling and subtle pastels made Charles ache for the dark, heavy wood of the library at Kellynch Hall, thick with the smell of smoke and old paper.

It was a moderately sized party, large enough so that the painfully tasteful parlor was buzzing with murmured conversation, but small and intimate enough that the guests were not overwhelmed. When the Markos arrived with Charles in tow, the majority of guests were already sequestered in small clusters and Charles was swept from group to group making introductions and bowing until his head felt ready to topple off.

He had met Mr. Stryker before, had studied at Oxford with his son Jason, a timid, fragile boy whose shy mannerisms obviously stemmed from the stern and sometimes brutal attitude of his father. The Strykers had blossomed into enormous wealth through a number of new shipping lines to the Americas. It was obvious to Charles that Mr. Stryker yearned desperately to fit in, and took out any failure to do so on his poor son. Consequently Charles detested him.

Stryker detested Charles in kind, but he was cordial enough as he introduced Charles to the remarkably beautiful woman who stood next to him, a new face that turned out to be the very Baroness Charles was suppose to be impressing.

“The Baroness Frost, recently returned to England from France,” Stryker said formerly, frowning at Charles as he bowed respectfully to the lady. “This is Mr. Charles Xavier.”

Everything about Frost was pale and fair, from the pearls woven into her blond curls to the crisp white folds of her gown. Charles was struck by her, as he would be by any perfectly formed work of art. She seemed nearly unreal, a precisely and lovingly carved Galatea brought to life in the low light of the room. Even her smile seemed flawless, and Charles spared a second to wonder if she practiced that meticulous curl of lip and brightness of eye in the mirror to ensure it created the appropriate breathless reaction.

“Xavier—you are the heir to Kellynch hall, are you not?”

“Indeed I am,” he said, surprised, “Forgive me, but I had assumed you were new to Bath and had not yet met your neighbours, much less garnered knowledge of someone who is rarely in town.”

“I make it a point to know anyone who is worth knowing,” she said with a sly smile, which caught Charles off guard again, only this time with delight. So there was more to the Baroness than a perfectly manicured appearance and a plunging décolletage. Perhaps they might be friends, especially since Charles had no intention of pursuing her romantically.

Stryker, seemingly unimpressed with the Lady’s forward manner, excused himself promptly, leaving Charles and the Baroness to retire to a small finely upholstered couch situated close to the fire. Charles discovered at once that she was a remarkably good conversationalist, witty and intelligent and knowledgeable of all aspects of the world.

He eagerly inquired about her time in France, which he assumed to be quite dramatic and exciting considering the war with Napoleon.

“My apologies for my son,” Kurt interrupted abruptly, and Charles looked up to find him looming over them, “It seems his time in the country has made him forget about what constitutes polite conversation with a Lady.” Though he smiled charmingly at Frost, the look he gave Charles was dark and sour.

“It’s quite alright,” Frost said, smoothing the moment over immediately, “It’s not often a gentleman desires to hear my thoughts on foreign policy.” She smiled warmly at Charles and he was thrilled to see Kurt suddenly caught out, his mouth hanging open until he managed to mold it into a smile once more.

“But what’s this I hear about you saving a young woman’s life Mr. Xavier?” Emma asked, brushing her fingertips against his sleeve, “That sounds quite a bit more exciting than my time in France.”

Charles looked at her with astonishment.

“I did what?”

“It was all anyone could talk about last week,” Frost continued, unfolding her fan gracefully and fluttering it by her throat in a practiced maneuver. “A young lady in Lyme slipped and fell and you were there to swoop in and save her.” She smiled at him, ignoring Kurt’s subtle scoff to the side of their conversation. “Quite the romantic hero, aren’t we Mr. Xavier?”

Charles felt his cheeks burn and sputtered inelegantly,

“I—I can assure you, I did very little. I’m only glad the lady is alright. She is a dear friend of mine.”

“Yes well, from what I hear she’s more than alright,” Frost smile extended into something a bit more mischievous, a hint of gossip in the slant of her mouth. “From what I hear, she’s engaged to be married, isn’t that right?”

The noise of the room, the clinking of glass and subtle buzz of conversation, ceased in an instant as her words settled like stones in the pit of his stomach. He was sure he would pass out in the silence, the blood draining from his cheeks and fingers leaving him pale and cold.

“Married?” he heard himself ask from far away, echoing and distorted like a shout underwater. “To whom?”

Frost seemed not to notice his distress, merely folded her fan and tapped it against her palm as she considered his question, unaware that Charles was clinging to her answer like a man shipwrecked and lost at sea.

“Oh I can’t quite recall the names. Some Naval Captain. I was sure you would know, considering how close you are…” the rest of her words were drowned out by the rush of water in his ears, the noise of the room flooding back in a nauseating torrent of sound that nearly swallowed him whole.

Erik. Married.

Part of him had been prepared for this to happen, though it didn’t make the sudden realization any easier to bear. On a surface level, he had known Marie and Erik were growing close, that they got along well. He had seen enough evidence of that at Uppercross, or in Lyme, Erik’s gentle hands guiding Marie across the uneven terrain of the countryside as Charles trailed behind, the delight that infused Marie’s face whenever she looked up at Erik, like a flower turned toward the sun.

He loved them both and he wished for nothing more than for Erik to be happy, but the thought of them together—the thought of their wedding and their clasped hands under a bower of flowers as they pledged themselves to one another as he stood silently by to bear witness. And then to have them as neighbours and attend dinners at their home and watch them dote on each other and pretend it wasn’t slowly shredding him into unlivable pieces…He couldn’t do it.

How could he possibly survive?

He felt suddenly, overwhelmingly, like he was about to be sick, or worse, burst into tears. Only the hours of arduous etiquette training he endured as a young boy restrained him stumbling from his seat and racing from the room. He numbly carried on conversation with Frost and his stepfather for a while longer, though later he could not recall what they talked about.

As soon as the moment presented itself, he fled. He was sure to hear about it later, but he could not stand another moment of stiff, cordial conversation, not when his heart was trying to tear itself from his chest.

Finally sealed in the darkness of the carriage as it rumbled toward home, he tore his cravat from his throat, sure it was choking him. It would have been so much easier if Erik had never come back into his life, if he could have remained a bittersweet memory of a life long ago. The first time he lost Erik he had been devastated, sure he would die from the pain. The second time was no easier with maturity and the years between them, and knowing that Erik would never care for him as he did before.

The first time he lost Erik it tore him apart. This time he felt numb, like a limb long festering had finally been removed, and all that remained was the void, the nothingness. The memory of what once was, and would never be again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More soon! *clutches your hands* I promise!


	7. Tea

 

Time passed in a cold miasma. Since hearing the news of Erik’s engagement, Charles had been numb to food or comfort, the pleasures of the city vanished or washed out to a gloomy grey. The depth and tenor of his pain surprised him, and also made him ashamed. He was a fool to think of any life in which he and Erik might know each other again as they once did.

But any amount of self-chastising was still not enough to negate the stubborn crumbling of his stupid heart.

His mood was unsurprisingly ignored or unnoticed by his stepfather and brother. Kurt continued to drag Charles about and wave him under the nose of any woman of fortune within the city limits, though on this particular day they were paying service to Kurt’s vanity rather than his ambition.

Though it was beyond their means, Kurt enjoyed eating out as often as possible. He liked to see and be seen and had demanded Charles’ presence at the Assembly Rooms where there was sure to be a great number of fashionable people present. Charles found the press of the quiet, well-dressed crowd uncomfortable, all those eyes ever watchful as he tried to drink his tea.

Kurt was nattering on about something to Cain, who sat sullenly beside Charles and piled his plate high with sandwiches while his father preened and subtly checked his reflection in the silverware. Charles was staring vacantly into space, his mind a million miles away at the seashore where, pitifully, he was caught in a daydream of Erik standing as a stoic sentinel on the cliffs at Lyme, a romantic figure cast in grey light and the wet spray of the sea. His mind had been so fractured and dreamy of late that when he saw Erik standing outside the window looking directly back at him, he thought it was merely a figment of his imagination.  

But no—he blinked, and there he was again, standing in his dark blue naval dress, the bustling crowd swarming around his motionless figure like waves breaking around an outcropping of stone. They were ensnared in each other’s gaze for a moment and then Erik broke away, turned his face and body into the crush of the afternoon traffic. Charles startled at his movement and stood abruptly, unsettling the china on the table with a loud rattle.

Kurt and Cain gaped at him, but he could only spare them a hasty excuse before he was rushing through the restaurant and out into the lobby, looking around for someone to give him his hat and coat so he might follow Erik out into the street and catch him before he got too far.

But he needn’t have worried. As he turned toward the door, there he was, Erik, his hat folded neatly under his arm, something warm around his mouth as he said,

“Mr. Xavier. Hello.”

He breathed out in surprise and caught Erik’s name in his mouth before he could say it out loud.

“Captain Lehnsherr,” he said instead, stepping close to Erik despite himself. The shoulders of Erik’s jacket were dark and damp from the rain, and he smelled of fresh air and wet wool and damp, rich soil. Charles tried to breath him in subtly. “What brings you to Bath?”

Erik did not step back from him, if anything he swayed slightly closer, the warmth in his face spreading outwards into a true smile.

“My sister and her husband the Admiral are in town for a short visit,” he said, “and I have come to exploit their hospitality once again.”

“Well I am very glad to see a familiar face,” Charles laughed, genuine delight filling up his chest. But as he gazed up at Erik, all warmth fled from him as he remembered sharply the reality of the situation, the news he had heard of Erik only days earlier that had sent him into a spiral similar to mourning. He felt his mouth crumple downwards and forced it into a smile instead. He did not want Erik to witness his sorrow, not when he should feel nothing but joy.

“But I have been rude—I have not yet offered you my sincere congratulations,”

Erik’s face creased in confusion, the wrinkle between his eyebrows painfully familiar.

“Congratulations…?” he asked, his eyes flickering across Charles’ face in close examination. Charles felt an unwilling flush bloom across his cheeks and forced himself to go on,

“Yes, I recently heard about your good news…” When Erik continued to look perplexed, he expanded, the words blocky and painfully awkward in his mouth, “your engagement to Miss Darkholme?”

It was the first time he had said the words out loud, though they had been screaming within his own mind since he heard them. Now, painfully, they seemed emphatically true and undeniable. Now they were reality.

But the expression manifesting across Erik’s face was not the bliss of the recently engaged. Instead there was blatant surprise, followed swiftly by a bit of humor, a well-known mischief Charles recognized from their youth when Erik knew something he did not, and intended on teasing Charles for his ignorance.

“Indeed Miss Darkholme is engaged to be married,” he said with a growing smile, “but not to me.”

Charles could feel his mouth gaping open but he could not tighten the hinges to draw it closed, so intense was the swell of relief within his breast.

“But—to whom--?”

“She is marrying Mr. Howlett,” Erik answered.

“Mr. Howlett?” Charles asked, incredulous, confusion warring with elation. “But…how?”

He could not reconcile Marie and her buoyant enthusiasm and penchant for adventures and mischief with Mr. Howlett’s tendency to keep himself isolated, his mind-set both sorrowful and slightly wild. They were both good people, to be sure. But good together?

“I think when you see Marie again, you’ll find her quite changed,” Erik said in response. “When she woke, she was quiet, reserved. I was able to observe how they grew closer to one another in gentle care and conversation.” He smiled at Charles then and it nearly stole Charles’ breath away. “He read poetry to her. Keats, I believe. Or maybe Wordsworth.”

The Romantics. Maybe Charles had won that particular debate after all.

“I’m surprised, but happy for them,” Charles said, laughing the lingering remains of his shock away. Marie was marrying Mr. Howlett instead of Erik, and Erik was…here. Standing before him and smiling, the usual ice in his eyes thawed and broken leaving his gaze open and bottomless like the ocean. He leaned closer, close enough to touch—

They both moved as if to speak in the same moment, when another voice interrupted their fledgling conversation.

“Oh here you are Charles.”

 The interloper was, of course, his stepfather. When Charles turned to him, he startled to see the Lady Frost on his arm, splendidly dressed in cream and royal blue, Cain lingering one gloomy footstep behind. Charles watched as Kurt’s eyes flickered between them, taking in the close proximity between Erik and Charles’ bodies, his mouth pulling into a frown.

Charles bowed to Lady Frost and ignored Kurt, smiling at her and gesturing at Erik,

“Baroness Frost, allow me to introduce you to Captain Lehnsherr, recently returned from service in the Royal Navy.” Next to him Erik bowed sharply and in deference to the Lady’s status, and Charles had to repress a smile. He remembered all too well how Erik loathed the mechanisms of propriety when they were young, could recall teaching Erik how to bow while Erik grumbled and railed against the archaic nonsense of each new, precise movement.

“Yes, Mr. Lehnsherr, how do you do,” Kurt said with affected disinterest. Charles watched as Erik’s expression drew closed once more and he sketched a slightly less courteous bow to Charles’ stepfather.

“Captain Lehnsherr now, Sir.”

The tension in the group was obvious, and though Lady Frost only seemed to look from one man to the next in curious, lofty amusement, Charles was eager to direct her attention elsewhere.

“Did you come for tea, Lady Frost?”

She smiled as her focus shifted to Charles, expression becoming genial and less austere.

“I was on my way out, in fact, when Mr. Marko caught my attention. He has proposed that we venture out into the city as a group,” she smiled at Kurt, white and blinding, “to better fend off the rain.”

“Oh…” Charles looked from Erik to Frost and back again. He had no pressing desire to leave Erik and the strange intimacy of their conversation, cloistered in the small entryway away from the rain. But there was no way he could turn down the Baroness’ invitation and not seem rude. “Of course.”

When he offered her a smile she responded in kind and stepped forward to loop her hand around his elbow. When he turned back to Erik, his eyes seemed fixed on the place where Charles’ body was now connected to Frost through jacket and glove, though only for a moment. He nodded to the group formally and stepped out of the way to let them pass.

Charles cast one last look at him over his shoulder as they stepped out the door and into the cloudy afternoon. Erik’s face though the glass was murky and indecipherable, and Charles yearned to see him clearly. It seemed as though every moment he managed to steal with Erik was layered in painted decorum and frustratingly indecipherable. There was a time when he knew everything about Erik, every minute flicker of his expression, every flavour of his smiles. Erik still seemed as familiar to him as his favourite book, well worn and well known, and yet he wasn’t sure if his traitorous heart was lying to him with every perceived tenderness and affection.

But Erik was in Bath. He was close, and he was not marrying anyone just yet. It was enough to build a hope on and against his better judgement, his battered heart began construction.


	8. Music

 

Erik seemed to haunt the streets of Bath from that moment onwards. Charles wondered where he was staying and whether he would welcome a visit. Saw him on every street corner, in every crowd of people, flashes of auburn hair or a wry smile that made his heart stutter and skip a beat.

When Charles went to a concert hosted by the Baroness a week after their meeting in the assembly rooms, he thought he saw Erik again amongst the guests milling about in the parlor, waiting for the music to begin. The man standing by the wall was just the right height and stood in just the same manner, subtly regal in a way that could not be ignored once it was noticed. It was not until the man turned and caught his eye, and smiled, that Charles realized it really _was_ Erik after all, recognized him with a solidity that hit him with a great shuddering intake of air.

They seemed to drift toward one another without thought, the rest of the room melting away until Charles was standing before Erik again in intimate silence.

Erik looked stiff and on guard in his best formal dress, the high collar of his coat highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the breadth of his shoulders. His uniform wasn’t nearly as lavish and elegant as the tails some of the other gentlemen wore but he cut a gorgeous figure, standing apart from the rest of the crowd.

When Charles arrived to stand before him, the tight line seemed to ease within Erik’s body, his shoulders curling imperceptibly toward him.   

“What are you doing here?” Charles asked before he could stop himself. He winced internally, waited for Erik’s expression to turn bitter and resentful the way it used to when Charles foolishly and with accidental ignorance reminded Erik of the ways society had deemed them unequal.

He was relieved this time when Erik’s gaze remained bright as though some inner light was eager to pour out of him.

“Your friend the Baroness was kind enough to extend an invitation to my sister and her husband.” He gestured to the left and Charles turned to see the Admiral and his wife standing amongst the crowd, the Admiral pointing up at one of the lavish frescos on the ceiling. Charles’ heart swelled to see them. “And they felt obligated to tow me along.”

“I am very glad to see you,” Charles said, his excitement making him inadvertently honest. He felt his cheeks colour with embarrassment, but Erik looked at him kindly.

“And I you,” he replied. “We barely had a chance to speak the other day.”

“I was a bit thrown by the news of Mr. Howlett and Miss Darkholme,” Charles confessed, swallowing around the surge of joy at the implication that Erik not only wished to speak with him again, but was pleased to see him as well. “Not that they don’t deserve every happiness, but…”

“It seemed rather rash?” Erik finished for him.

“Yes.”

Erik nodded in agreement.

“They will be well suited but it did come as a surprise, I think, to many. Even to those of us who were there and witnessed it.” His expression grew clouds, and for a moment Charles thought could see within the cracks of his normally stoic facade. “I know Mr. Howlett mourned his loss a long time. To be honest, it was strange that he was able to turn so abruptly to another’s love and affection. I knew his former wife and…a woman such as that, a love like that, I think it is deserving of a lifetime of devotion.”

The words were weighted with purpose and buried meaning, and Charles was tempted to lift each one and study it as he would one of his geological specimens, but he was afraid of what he might find upon closer examination. Aware he was walking a fine line, and that one misplaced syllable would make him lose his grasp on the finely spun tether he had only recently managed to somehow reconstruct between them, Charles said,

“Sometimes people find love in unexpected places. I cannot begrudge them their happiness.”

“Of course not,” Erik agreed. “I’m glad they have each other especially after…” he hesitated, uncharacteristically unsure, “Well. I feel as though Marie might have been spared quite a bit of pain if it weren’t for me.”

Charles shook his head,

“No, it was an accident—“

“She might not have been so bold, if I had not been so encouraging of her…advancesweak. I fear I might have been unfair to her.”

Charles did not know what to say in the wake of this confession, but chanced a gentle hand on Erik’s sleeve. The Erik he knew from his youth had rebuked any compassion or empathy—saw it as nothing more than pity. The Erik now, older and somewhat tempered by age and experience allowed Charles the gesture of comfort, and so Charles pressed a bit further.

“All is well that ends well. She is healthy. And by your accounts, she is in love. I think it was a happy ending?” Erik sighed, and some of the tension seemed to release from his frame.

“Did you stay long in Lyme?” Charles asked, rather nonsensically but hoping to dispel some of the gloom their conversation had cast over Erik’s head.

“Not long,” he replied, distracted.

“I should like to return some day and finish exploring it in full,” Charles said, smiling when Erik’s lips curled up teasingly.

“Lyme? I’m not sure there was much more to explore.”

Charles laughed.

“I have seen so little of the world, any new place is a great adventure.”

His words seemed to have struck a chord in Erik, his eyes fixed on Charles’ face, his expression torn between warmth and his former pain, and some new revelation.

“Charles,” he breathed after a long moment, only to be interrupted by a voice calling “Mr. Xavier!” from their left. Charles startled, turned to see the Crofts moving toward him. He tried to greet them but was unsure if he succeeded with any grace, shaken and breathless as he was, as though he had been struck by lightning.

For the first time in eight years, he had heard his Christian name spoken from Erik’s lips, and with the same tenor of emotion that he remembered all too painfully from his youth. He glanced from the Crofts back to Erik, eager to retain some of their newfound intimacy, but Erik was looking away from him and smiling at his sister. Charles repressed the flutter of disappointment in his chest and focused his attention on the Admiral who was shaking his hand in firm, enthusiastic welcome.

Despite the ruined moment, he was genuinely happy to see the couple after so long apart, and they in turn seemed sincerely glad to see him as well. They spent a few moments catching up and exchanging pleasantries, the Crofts inquiring about his time in Bath, to which Charles could only respond in bland generalizing statements.

He could not shake his mind from his encounter with Erik, however, though Erik showed no sign of being moved or similarly distracted. His face was implacably calm, the tenor of his voice as low and sure as it always was. There was only a minute flicker of emotion in his expression when he glanced over Charles’ shoulder and became slightly more cool and impassive, his good humor sealing itself away.

Charles looked to see what had caught his attention and was nearly blinded by the approached of Baroness Frost, resplendent in pale ivory to match the luminous pallor of her skin. She was dressed more in the style of the French, her hair elaborate and curled and decked in pearl and silver, a delicate cameo settled in between her breasts drawing the eye.

Not wanting to be caught out staring improperly, Charles quickly averted his gaze to her face, which was beaming at him, more open and friendly than he’d ever seen her before in their short acquaintance.

“Mr. Xavier!” she exclaimed, “I was told you were in attendance, and was searching for you everywhere!” She drew level with their small party, the crowded assembly parting before her like a cresting wave.

“Well,” Charles replied, slightly taken aback by her enthusiasm, “here I am?”

“Yes, here you are,” she smiled at him with a glint of something mischievous in her eye, “hiding yourself away in the corner.” She turned to look at the Crofts with an expectant arch to her eyebrow and Charles inwardly cursed his bad manners.

“My apologies. Baroness Frost, may I introduce to you Admiral and Mrs. Croft,” he turned slightly toward Erik, “And you’ve already met Captain Lehnsherr.”

“Indeed I have,” she replied, lowering her head in deference to Erik’s bow.

“Thank you for inviting us,” Ruth said, rising up from a well-executed curtsey. “Mr. Xavier is our only acquaintance in Bath, so we don’t find occasion to attend parties in the city very often.

“Yes, Mr. Xavier doesn’t get out much, does he?” Frost replied teasingly. Ruth paled, and looked to Charles, apology written across her features.

“Oh no, I only meant—“

“Yes, well, that just means he must sit next to me tonight,” Frost cut in, looking at Charles expectantly. “I must make the most of his uncommon appearance.” She placed a hand on his arm, “Just like one of your rare birds, aren’t you Mr. Xavier. Rarely seen, but so appreciated when you do show your face.”

Charles could feel cheeks heat in a rising blush, unsure of how to respond to such forward flattery.  Looking to his company, the Admiral only seemed amused at his expense though Ruth met his eyes with a rueful grimace. Erik was looking at the Baroness in a way that was all too familiar to Charles: his mind a million miles away and enclosed behind steel walls.

Frost was oblivious to all of it, laughing lightly at Charles’ embarrassment. Before she could comment further, her Butler requested that the gathered crowd move into the hall where the music was soon to commence. Frost took Charles’ arm gently, and excused them both from the company of the Crofts, drawing him toward the neatly arranged rows of chairs and up to the very front where the Markos were already seated.

She seemed determined to proceed with her plan of retaining Charles’ company, and while he certainly wouldn’t mind speaking with Frost for the duration of the night, he balked at the thought of being forced to sit with his stepfather and brother. He looked around for the Crofts and saw them filing into a row near the back of the room, Erik standing head and shoulders above the crowd and helping his sister into her seat.

He hesitated for a moment before Frost tugged at his sleeve.

“The music is about to begin Mr. Xavier.” She beckoned at him to take the seat next to her, “You might want to sit before someone complains that you’re blocking the view.”

Reluctantly he sat, turning his body to the left toward the Baroness so that he might better avoid Kurt’s scowl. Luckily the music began promptly and he was saved from forced pleasantries with his family.

Soon he was swept into the music and being so close, close enough to feel the vibration of the cello through the floor, was almost worth having to sit by his stepfather’s side for more than an hour. After a period of time a yellow-haired soloist of some repute took center stage and Charles was unable to repress a murmur of delight as she began to work her way through selections from _The Marriage of Figaro_.

“You know this one, Mr. Xavier?” Emma asked, leaning in close to whisper the words next to his ear. He nodded.

“Yes, it’s one of my favourites.”

She was silent for a time before she leaned in again.

“I have to confess, I’m not familiar with it and my Italian in shamefully rusty.”

Charles listened to the aria for a moment, allowed the words fill up his breast and then pressed closer to Frost so as to not disturb the hushed audience or the soloist as her face contorted in radiant emotion.

As her mouth shaped each note, he echoed the Italian words in English.

_Porgi, amor, qualche ristoro_

“O Love, give me some remedy," 

_al mio duolo, a' miei sospir._

“For my pain, for my sighs,”

_O mi rendi il mio tesoro,_

“Either return my love to me,”

_o mi lascia almen morir._

“Or let me find peace in death.”

He shut eyes, unable to translate further. Why was it, he wondered, that every moment, every inflection of every day seemed to reverberate with a reminder of the past.

“Your Italian is very good.” The sound of Baroness Frost’s voice was overlaid with applause and broke him from his moment of melancholy. When he opened his eyes the singer was curtseying low before the audience and the Baroness was turned toward him, approval evident in her expression.

“Thank you,” he said, caught out and strangely vulnerable, unsure of how to take the unabashed praise. “I daresay your French is probably miles better than mine.”

“It probably is,” she agreed with a smile. Charles laughed and in his mirth glanced up and noticed Erik along the wall at the end of their row, rigid and formal in his military dress as though standing at attention. He was looking directly at Charles but when their eyes connected he turned and moved swiftly alongside the assembled chairs toward the exit.

The audience was milling about, so Charles’ abrupt departure only attracted minimal attention, mainly from his scowling stepfather and the Baroness who was staring after him, her full mouth parted in surprise.

“Captain Lehnsherr!” he called as he neared Erik’s retreating form, “Are you leaving so soon?” Erik hesitated for a step and then said brusquely,

“Yes, I am retiring early.” Charles scrambled after him as he marched away, hurrying to keep up with Erik’s longer stride.

“But…but the music is good, is it not?”

Erik laughed sharply.

“I neither know nor care.”

Charles, wounded, stumbled for a moment and then pushed in front of Erik, forcing him to stop and look him in the eye.

“Please—“ he said, breathless from the chase.

“What do you want?” Erik asked, his tongue full of the same steel as his gaze.

“Well…this is very sudden,” Charles said, searching around for an excuse, “Must you go right away?” The orchestra began to warm up once more and Charles remembered the program in his hand, the song that was to follow. “The next song is a love song—a very beautiful love song. Is that not enough to convince you to stay?”

Erik frowned and pushed by him once more.

“No,” He muttered on his way past, leaving Charles bereft and alone in the front hall with only the distant strains of violin, “It’s not enough.”  



	9. Betrothal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay!! I was so focused on writing I didn't have time to edit what was already written!! The good news is that I am almost done the very last chapter, and so updates will come a lot quicker! Thank you for your patience!
> 
> Also, winterling has drawn BEAUTIFUL cover art for this fic!! Check it out over here:
> 
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/2417087
> 
> (ART!!! HOW???)

 

The following day Charles wandered aimlessly around the house followed here and there by half-read books and cold cups of tea. He was intermittently annoyed and confused by Erik’s behaviour the night before, one moment amiable with Charles as though they were close friends again, the next brushing him off as though Charles were a particularly persistent and obnoxious fly.

Charles had no idea what offence he had committed. Perhaps it was nothing more than Erik remembering himself and the reasons he had for keeping Charles at a distance.

He stared listlessly out the window. If that was indeed the case, than the only crime Charles had perpetrated was bearing the vain hope that their friendship might be rekindled; in thinking that Erik could forget or move on with eight years between the stupid boy that Charles had been and the man he was now.

He was startled from his somber contemplation when the sour-faced butler entered and announced the arrival of the very man who had occupied Charles’ thoughts all morning. Erik strode through the door as though drawn forth by the melancholy focus of Charles’ mind and executed a short, perfunctory bow, his gaze fixed somewhere on the crown molding above Charles’ head.

“Mr. Xavier, I come bearing a message from the Admiral.”

His words were short and clipped, everything in him stoic, military, and cold. Charles hesitantly got to his feet, eyes tracing over the cool colour of Erik’s eyes, the flexing muscle in his jaw as his teeth clenched together, trying to find some clue to Erik’s thoughts and mood after his abrupt departure the night before.

“Yes?”

“He has become aware of your pending engagement,” Erik replied, his words flat and clipped, his tone formal and indifferent, “he bids you to take back Kellynch Hall at your pleasure and wishes you a very sincere congratulations.”

Charles gaped at him.

“My…my what?” The room felt very suddenly surreal, as though he were standing in a vivid and realistic dream. “To whom am I meant to be getting married to?”

Erik’s eyes flickered to meet his gaze and his mouth curled into a vicious, mocking smile.

“The Baroness Frost, of course.” The name was formed like an insult though Erik’s smile remained fixed as he said it. “All of Bath is talking about it.”

Charles was utterly dumbfounded. Engaged to the Baroness? Why would all of Bath be gossiping about something that was profoundly untrue? He had barely shared a handful of conversations with the Lady Frost, surely not enough to lead anyone to speculation. He worried suddenly that in the turbulence of Erik’s return he had perhaps conducted himself inappropriately with the Baroness. Any misconduct was nothing more than an oversight or an accident, but he felt suddenly ashamed of himself. Here he was, nearly 25 and still as fumbling and incapable of social interaction as he was as an arrogant 16-year-old boy.

So caught was he in his shock and consequent shame that he missed Erik’s farewell and only caught his parting bow.

“Wait!” he called as Erik departed from the room in swift strides. He followed closely at his heels. “There’s been some kind of mistake—Erik,” at the sound of his name Erik turned abruptly, his expression frozen once more in cool detachment. They were partway down the stairs and Charles nearly collided with him before he managed to catch himself on the step above. Though he was taller than Erik like this, he felt miniscule under his gaze. He tried to make his mouth work so that he might find some kind of explanation, put words to the truth.

Any clarification he might have offered was interrupted by the poorly timed arrival of Raven and Azazel who spilled through the front entrance burdened with luggage.

“Charles!” Raven shouted, inappropriately loud, “And Captain Lehnsherr, what a pleasure to see you in Bath!”

Erik’s welcoming bow was made awkward by his placement on the steps, but he still managed to carry himself with grace when he lifted his head and turned to look at Charles once more.

“Provide the Admiral with your decision at your earliest convenience so that he can make other arrangements for accommodation.”

Charles was still scrambling to explain, hands reaching out and to clutch at Erik’s jacket to stay his departure, but Erik pulled away from him, untouchable and transient, and pushed past Azazel to wedge his way out the door.

Raven looked from the door, to Charles, to Azazel in shock.

“Well,” she said, “That was awfully abrupt.”

Charles remained rooted to the stairs for a moment longer before pulling himself together. He hurried down the steps and gathered his coat and gloves, kissed Raven’s confused cheek swiftly before pulling on his hat.

“Charles, where are you off to?” Charles tugged his gloves over his fingers and made his way past her. “We’ve only just arrived and we have so much to tell you about Marie—“

“I’ll be back shortly,” he called, already halfway out the door. “I have to go sort out a misunderstanding.”

***

The Baroness lived in elegant accommodations at the center of the most fashionable neighbourhood in Bath. Charles knew it was unorthodox to call upon an unmarried woman, but he could not allow another moment to go by without remedying the situation. If all of Bath was aflutter with the news of his engagement to the Lady Frost, enough damage had already been done.

When the maid showed him through to the sitting room, the Baroness was already waiting for him, the typical pristine white of her dress accented by pink ribbon in her hair and around her waist. She was seated gracefully upon a rigid pearl and mahogany couch, and when he approached her and bowed she graced him with a generous smile, ostensibly pleased to see him. Perhaps she had not heard the rumors yet, Charles mused.

“Mr. Xavier, have you finally come to take me up on my offer of tea?”

Charles clutched the brim of his hat between both gloved hands and braced himself, shook his head no.

“Unfortunately my visit to you today is not one of pleasure.”

Her welcoming smile faded to a look of distress.

“Please don’t concern yourself,” he rushed on, trying to dispel the worst of her fears, “Nothing so dire has occurred that cannot be undone.”

“Mr. Xavier you are frightening me,” she placed one fine boned hand against her breast, “what has happened?”

“It appears as though word has spread that we are romantically involved and soon to be engaged.” He forced himself to meet her eyes. “You have my sincerest assurance that I no knowledge of these rumours until this very morning. Once I heard I came here immediately to dispel any misgivings you might have about my character."

“Oh.” The Baroness smiled and sagged back against the couch with relief, “Yes, I’ve heard those rumors. Shame on you Mr. Xavier, you had me quite at my wits end for a moment!”

Her reaction was so altered from what he had been expecting, Charles was disoriented for a moment.

“You know? My Lady, though the rumors were not my doing, I cannot apologize enough—“

She laughed and interrupted him.

“Mr. Xavier, I know about the rumors because I started them.”

Charles stared at her feeling completely wrong-footed.

“…Excuse me?”

Frost smiled at him, pityingly, and gestured to the seat next to her on the low couch. When he sank numbly to sit by her side, she reached out and patted his hand.

“I know you, my dear Mr. Xavier. I know your head is a million miles away from the regular affairs of polite society. I knew you would never think to approach me yourself, and I wanted to give you a little push in the right direction.”

“You…” he could not seem to catch onto the game at play, while Emma smiled at him as though she were holding all of the cards. “You  _wanted_  people to think we were engaged? Why?”

She smiled at him with fond exasperation. “Because I was hoping that it might inspire you to a genuine proposal.”

He felt his stomach twist and grow cold.

“Oh,” he began unsteadily, desperately trying to marshal his thoughts into order so that he might not insult or offend the Lady, “I’m afraid there has been some kind of misunderstanding. You are a beautiful, kind woman Baroness, but I—“

She surprised him by laughing again,

“I believe it is you who misunderstand me, Mr. Xavier. I know you do not love me, nor do I think you had any designs on me. I was merely hoping to bring your attention to what might be an advantageous merger for both of us.”

Her eyes were bright, her expression eager and he could read no insult or offence in her countenance.

“What, exactly, are you proposing?” He chose each word carefully, feeling as though he might misstep at any moment.

She sat back, fully in control while Charles floundered at her side. She pressed her lips together and looked him over, her eyes narrowed and her gaze penetrating, ready to flay him apart until his bare bones were exposed. Finally she said:

“You don’t care much for business, do you Mr. Xavier?”

He was thrown by the sudden change in conversation, but answered honestly.

“I don’t really have a head for numbers.”

She nodded.

“As I suspected. And you are to inherit your title soon?”

“In a few months,” he replied, cautiously.

“Well, you are to be an Earl soon Mr. Xavier. You will have little time for your books when there is an estate to be run.”

Charles stared at her.

“Baroness, I can assure you that despite my distaste for business, I am more than capable of managing my estate.”

“Of course you are,” she said quickly, hand resting over his again in appeasement, “but do you want to? Wouldn’t you rather continue your studies? I know how much you miss Oxford, Charles.”

Her use of his Christian name startled him, and he pulled his hand out from beneath hers suddenly aware of their close proximity. He stood, seeking distance and breathing room but Frost stood as well and all at once he realized how close they were, and how standing toe to toe the Baroness loomed over him, tall and elegant. Not unlike Erik, though paler and less weathered by the elements, and with a shrewd cunning in her eyes.

“This is what I can offer you,” she said, moving closer to him than propriety would normally allow.

“You can spend all your time out in the country with your books and experiments and birds. All I ask is for control over the estate and lodgings in town. You won’t have to do a thing Charles—you’ll be free.” She tipped his chin up with a gentle fingertip, her eyes moving slowly over his face, and he felt as trapped and breathless as one of his specimens pinned down under glass.

“I won’t ask you for anything,” she continued, and gently brushed her thumb over his bottom lip, “but I can give you everything.”

He stepped back sharply, cheeks flaming. He could not deny that it was a good proposition, and surely one his stepfather would gladly agree to. But in his heart it did not feel right. He forced his thoughts away from Erik, desperately tried to draw his whirling brain back into submission.

“And how do you propose we fund this proposition?” When a flicker of surprise moved the smug expression on her face, he had a sudden epiphany and pressed further. “Do you come with fortune, Baroness? Because I can assure you that I do not.”

The surprise morphed into outright shock, cracking her perfect, porcelain facade.

“What? Are you not inheriting the title? The lands?”

Charles smiled at her grimly.

“I am inheriting the title, and with it all of the debt accumulated under my stepfather’s name while he held the inheritance in trust until my 25th birthday.”

Gone was the confident, self-assured woman of only a few moments previous. Frost was gaping inelegantly at him now, though Charles took no pleasure in gaining the upper hand.

“But…but your stepfather,” she said, incredulity smothering her every word, her every gesture, “He made it seem…”

“Kurt Marko is a thief and a liar,” Charles responded steadily, but not unkindly. “I believe he was trying to use you in the same way you were trying to use me.”

She looked up at him sharply, her expression abruptly colder and more closed off than it had ever been before. Disappointment crept in from all angles and Charles had the sinking feeling that he was meeting the true Baroness for the first time.

They stared at each other in the silent hush of the sitting room for another moment, the afternoon sunlight painting the white of the Baroness’ dress a deep golden yellow. Frost looked prepared to defend herself against any attack, but Charles could summon no anger or resentment toward her. He felt tired down to his very bones.

“Goodbye Emma,” he sighed, before turning on his heel and leaving without another word. 

 

 


	10. The Letter

 

When he arrived back at the townhouse he went looking for his sister. The weight of his conversation with the Baroness sat heavily on his chest and Raven had always offered the kind of blunt and sometimes tactless advice he required to shift his worldview back into alignment.

He found her in the drawing room along with her husband who was sprawled carelessly across a low chaise. Upon entering he realized a third party was sitting in the corner at the small mahogany desk, a tall man with dark hair who looked like Erik to Charles’ fevered imagination. He startled when the man turned and he could see that it truly was Erik and not some figment dredged up by longing. Erik offered him an abrupt nod and turned back to scratching his quill along a thick sheet of paper before Charles could gather his faculties together to present some kind of greeting in return.

Raven stood and grasped him gently by the arm, drew him over to the window seat on the far side of the room before he could make a further fool of himself. He sank gratefully onto the cushions and waited for Raven to join him once she had rung for a maid and requested tea.

“Where did you run off to?” she asked as she dropped onto the seat next to him, “You left so abruptly and,” she lowered her voice, “Captain Lehnsherr was awfully tightlipped when he returned to fetch Azazel.” She glanced toward Erik who continued scratching away in the corner, his shoulders hunched over his paper. “Did you quarrel with him?”

Charles peeled off his gloves and rubbed wearily at his eyes.

“No, we…there was a misunderstanding.”

 Raven looked at him pointedly until he sighed and quietly unfolded the contents of the morning for her, watched as she went from shock to incredulity and then finally to something soft like pity as he recounted his conversation with Frost and the revelations about her character, and her agenda.

 “Oh Charles,” she said finally when he had finished, her mouth set in an unhappy line. He looked away from her and leaned his forehead against the windowpane, exhaled slowly and watched as his breath condensed against the glass in a cloud of opaque grey.

 “I didn’t love her. And I had no intention of marrying her, though she is a beautiful and intelligent woman. I thought she had been honest with me. I thought we might have been friends.” He sighed. “And, I guess I’m ashamed that I was so easily duped. I feel like a fool.”

 “You can’t always be the smartest man in the room Charles,” Raven gently teased, placing a hand on top of his on the windowsill. He laced their fingers together and mustered a smile for her.

 “Yes I admit my pride was wounded.” He squeezed her hand, “But you always say I need to be reminded of my own mortality.”

 ”True,” Raven replied, and then frowned, “though believing the best in people does not make you a fool Charles. I would hate for you to become jaded because of this. Already you keep yourself so isolated from everyone else.”

 Charles sobered. He looked down at their hands and the way their fingers were woven together and thought about human contact, and how he had not touched another person intimately in years.  He wondered if maybe this was it. If this were the full sum of affection he would receive in the years to come. Would it be enough? Could books or drink or the body of some anonymous stranger be enough to fill in the aching holes carved out of his flesh? To satisfy the parasitic yearning that seemed to sit deep inside his chest?

He wondered how he might survive.

 His attention drifted back to the conversation at hand, and Raven who was mid-sentence:

 “…And say what you want about the whims of women, men can be just as cruel and equally as heartless.”

She turned to look at Erik and in a moment of surreal and thoughtless fright, Charles thought she knew everything that happened between them, both in the past and in the last few weeks, and that frozen tableau of a lover’s quarrel on the stairs that morning. But instead Raven frowned and said,

  “I am happy for Marie. Mr. Howlett is a good man, and will be a kind and loving husband, of that I am certain. But Mr. Howlett has given Captain Lehnsherr a cameo with the image of his wife and asked him to recast it so that he may have one of Marie instead.” She shook her head. “When he came to ask Azazel to bring it here, the pain on his face was real. He could not bring himself to complete the task and needed Captain Lehnsherr to do it for him and yet even with all of that pain he seems determined to replace one wife with another.” She looked at Charles then, as somber and serious as he had ever seen his little sister.

 “It has been weighing on me, Charles. Can a woman be forgotten so easily? Are we all so interchangeable? I would like to think that Azazel might mourn the loss of me, but maybe he would plaster over my image with another and love her just as fiercely.”

 Charles shook his head and clasped her hand tighter,

 “I cannot speak for Mr. Howlett, but I do not believe human beings could ever be so weak or changeable.  I think all people, men and women both, are capable of inflicting pain upon each other, but are equally as capable of kindness and loyalty and love.” Knowing that if he spoke vaguely enough Raven might believe he was speaking of Emma, he said,

 “I have suffered at the hands of someone I thought cared for me and who did not. I have discovered that while I might be willing to endure and wait in hope, there are those who are unforgiving, who move on and forget. I have made so many mistakes and I have hurt others, but I cannot believe that we as human beings are damned or infinitely fallible. I cannot give up hope, even when those I care for offer me nothing in return. I must believe that you and I, that we are worth more than that.”

 A sudden clamour startled the intense privacy of the moment and Charles looked up to see Erik bending over to pick up a fumbled container of pounce from the floor. Charles’ stomach lurched and for one sick minute he wondered if Erik had heard him, but Erik’s expression revealed nothing, as placid and unfathomable as always.

 “Nearly finished Lehnsherr?” Azazel inquired, flipping idly through a book. 

 “Nearly,” Erik mumbled before setting his quill against paper once more. 

When Charles turned back to Raven, her expression was awash with emotion and full of questions, but she had no chance to ask any of them as Mrs. Darkholme fluttered into the room demanding Raven’s presence at the shop down the road where she found the perfect ribbons to offset the colour of Marie’s hair.

 At the same moment that Raven moved to leave, Erik stood from the writing desk, shaking his letter to dry the ink before handing it off to Azazel. In a whirlwind they said their goodbyes as Mrs. Darkholme summoned the servants and Raven released Charles’ hand, pulling on her gloves.

 “I’ll be back soon,” she said, standing so that she towered over him. He nodded slowly and she cupped his face, kissing him gently on the forehead.

 There was a noise by the door and Erik suddenly reappeared, bowing to Mrs. Darkholme as she fluttered past him in a delighted frenzy calling for Raven to follow her at once. Erik turned to Charles and Raven and said, haltingly,

 “My apologies, I forgot my gloves.” He strode quickly over to the corner where his gloves were visible and waiting for him on top of the desk. As he curled his fingers around the worn leather, he turned back and purposefully caught Charles’ gaze, the direct contact of his eyes mesmerizing and startling. Confused, Charles stared at him as Erik extracted a sheet of paper from the pile on the desk and looked at Charles pointedly. He tapped the paper once with a firm finger before leaving it behind and striding out of the room, the absence of his gaze and his presence rendering Charles immobile and adrift.

Raven was tying her bonnet by the door and bidding him farewell, but he could barely understand her as he stood from the window seat and made his way over to the table, brushing gentle fingertips across the paper Erik had left behind. A message? Had he left this for Charles?

 He picked it up.

 

>   _I can listen no longer in silence. Forgive the means, this voiceless paper, but your words have left me half in agony, half in hope. Charles, say that I am not too late? Say you have not given up on me? Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful, but never inconstant. I have ‘forgotten you’? There has not been one day since we parted that you have not haunted my mind._
> 
> _I have loved none but you. My heart belongs as much to you now as it did eight years ago when you almost broke it. You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone, I think and plan. Have you not seen this? I can hardly write—_
> 
> _I’m out of time. Charles, give me a look or a sign, like when we were children. One look from you will be enough to silence me forever._
> 
> _E.L._

 

Distantly he was aware of the shape of the room, of the feel of paper between his shaking fingers. Distantly he felt the floor beneath his feet though he felt like he was flying as he raced down the stairs. The colour of the world outside, the sound of hooves and wheels clattering over cobblestone, of the chattering women drifting by, all of it was pale and muted in contrast with the sharp angular shape of Erik’s shoulders, the flutter of his coat in the wind, the extension of his legs as he moved away from Charles down the street. 

 Charles raced after him though when he grasped his arm and watched as Erik turned to him, his expression pinched closed and imprisoned behind lock and key, he had no idea what he might say. They stood, the two of them motionless statues frozen in a swarm of activity, connected by Charles' hand clutched to Erik’s sleeve.

 Charles had no hat, no gloves, and the wind was biting enough that he should have been cold but he was not. He only felt a flood of fire in his veins, his heart pumping loudly and brightly enough that it should have been seen by everyone who passed by. He raised the hand that gripped the letter and held it up for Erik to see. 

 ”Is this—” he began, but all his words seemed to have deserted him, his throat clenched tight around a fistful of tears and wild, joyful hope.

 ”Is this true?” he finished when Erik made no move to flee nor fill in the empty space between them with words or action. 

 Erik looked at him then, truly looked at him, and the intensity of his gaze nearly tumbled Charles backward into the street. 

 ”I tried to forget you,” he replied. “I thought I had.”

 The words stung Charles, but in the same breath they elated him. Erik had not forgotten him. He was a present in Erik’s mind as Erik was in his own. And the letter burned as truth in his hand, the honest revelation that they were bound to each other equally, and that the binding had never been severed, not even when Charles felt most alone in dark, silent moments of the past eight years.

 He did not know what he could possibly give to Erik in return, what words he might offer him when all semblance of rational thought had fled. The hand that was clutching Erik’s sleeve slipped to his wrist and Charles tugged at him gently.

"Come back,” he said, and surely Erik must have heard how his voice was shaking, must have felt the trembling of emotion in his hand even through the thick leather of his gloves. “Come back to the house with me,” he asked again. Erik nodded, staring at him as though they were ensnared in some kind of mutual trance, and followed him back toward the townhouse.

The busy afternoon crowd jostled them back and forth, but they never lost contact with one another, and at some point one of them moved their hand so that it was entwined with the other’s and tightly held. For the first time Charles did not think about who would see and what they would think. He thought of nothing more than the feeling of Erik’s hand in his own, his vision narrowing to his own front door and the quiet privacy they would find beyond the heavy wood.

 When the door sealed shut behind them, the silence was almost oppressive. Suddenly the only two things that existed in the world were Charles and Erik, two bodies breathing out of sync, two hearts racing, connected by two hands. There was a sudden noise from down the corridor and Erik made as though to pull away, but Charles held fast.

 They were pressed close to one another and when Charles said, “this way,” his words seemed to cling to the air trapped between their bodies. He barely knew where he was going, only realized he had pulled Erik into the library when the doors closed behind them and the smell of leather, ink and paper washed over him. He stood facing the door for a moment, straining for clarity and solid ground but then Erik said,  _Charles_ and somehow that single word captured an entire universe of intimacy and vulnerability. Charles was lost again, was turning and meeting Erik in the centre of the room and throwing himself into his arms.

Their lips met as their bodies did, violently and with all the built up emotion of eight lost years. And yet for all the time lost, they still knew each other intimately, the taste of Erik’s mouth sweetly familiar, the small noise he made as they separated for air, as though he couldn’t bare to be parted for even a moment, was permanently tattooed in Charles’ mind.

 Within that familiarity there was an added fervour as well, a desperation like a drowning man suddenly surfacing and breathing again. And like drowning men saved, they both revelled in the rediscovery of each other and the pure ecstatic joy of coming back to life.

 Charles began to lose track of time, each moment stretched out and surreal. Everything that was not Erik’s mouth or his large hands running over his body, or the feeling of Erik’s coat beneath his palms, the brass buttons cool under his feverish fingers, was obsolete and inconsequential. Logically Charles knew it had only been a matter of moments since they had crashed together, but time seemed to come to a complete standstill leaving only the two of them clinging to one another in the quiet of the library sharing one endless and perfect kiss.

 Their peace was shattered by a single word.

 “You.”

 They startled and broke apart and Charles felt the loss of Erik like a physical wound, like flesh being torn from his body. He spun around and saw his stepfather standing in the doorway, his face purple with rage, one hand clenched around the doorknob as though he might crush the metal between his fingers.

 “As soon as you came back, I knew you would be trouble.” He stepped into the room and slammed the door shut behind him hard enough to rattle the walls. “And here I find you,” he continued, his voice low with barely restrained anger, “engaging in the same vile acts you drew Charles into as a boy. You serpent, you—you  _devil_ —“

 “Devil?” Charles asked, stunned and incredulous and bold in the face of Kurt’s vicious malice, “There is one devil in this room, sir, and it is not Erik.”

 “’Erik’,” Kurt sneered, “Is that what you call your sodomite—“ He could say no more before Erik lunged forward and struck him across the face. Kurt howled as his nose began to run, splattering blood across the stark white of his cravat and Charles stole one moment of pure satisfaction before he intervened, catching Erik’s arm before he could land a second blow. Erik’s face was twisted in a cold, grey anger and he barely saw Charles, struggled against him until he became aware of who had hold of him.

 “No more,” Charles murmured to him, and Erik blinked at him incredulously.

 “You would show this man mercy? After all that he has done?”

Kurt recovered enough to throw himself clumsily at Erik, and while he was no trained fighter, nor able-bodied seaman like Erik, he was large enough that the impact of his body rattled Charles’ teeth, caught as he was between them.

 He shoved them apart again and when Erik resisted, he shook him by the front of his coat.

 “Erik, please! Enough!”

 Erik reluctantly backed away and Charles kept hold of Kurt as he mumbled foul incoherent things at him and struggled against his grip. 

 ”You should go,” he said to Erik, looking to avoid another altercation, and instantly regretted it when Erik looked stunned, as though he was the one who had been dealt a blow. Before Charles could say another word he was shoving past them and through the library door, shutting it behind him with a resounding and final click.

 “You,” Kurt’s voice came to him as through a tunnel and from a great distance, “will suffer for this disrespect, do you hear me?”

 There was a time when Kurt’s disapproval had been a palpable thing. Something to be afraid of. There had been a time when his anger had haunted Charles like a living nightmare, had meant pain and torment and real horror.

 Now Charles looked at Kurt and wondered how such an insignificant and petty man could have controlled so much of his life. Could have harboured so much resentment for a child, and brought that child so much pain. 

“All my life, I’ve done everything you asked of me.” He said slowly. “ I left school to come home and care for mother. I did not fight when everything was left in trust with you and you wasted every penny of my father’s money.” Kurt’s face was rising in colour again, but Charles would not be stopped, not when a lifetime of biting his tongue and trying to be fit and normal and suppressing his every happiness was rising up inside of him and pouring through the floodgates.

 “I have tried to find love and affection for you, for my mother’s sake if not my own, but you have loathed and resented me from the very start.”

 Kurt opened his mouth to interject, but Charles would have none of his defence, or insults, or accusations. Already his mind was racing ahead to where Erik might have gone and the way his face had frozen and gone hard before he left.

 “In one month I will be 25,” he continued resolutely. “I will come into my inheritance and you will no longer have any say or control over how this estate is managed.”

 A cruel look dawned over Kurt’s bloodied face.

 “I will tell everyone what you are. I will tell them about your perverse and unchristian acts, you—“

 “If you tell anyone, you will only succeed in destroying the family name you have leeched off of for so long,” Charles replied, “And you will be left with nothing.” He felt strangely calm and in control, though achingly weary.  He looked at his stepfather and saw a cruel man with ambition, but also a man with little to no position or authority. A small insect grasping at large fruit that he will never be able to reach or carry. Looking at him now, Kurt seemed not the nightmare of his childhood, but a frail and pathetic man with a bloodied nose. A man, if not worthy of his kindness, at least worthy of his pity.

 Kurt was gaping at him, his face drawn and pale as he considered Charles’ statement and found it to be true.

 “In exchange for your silence, and your complete separation from matters of the estate, and from my life and Raven’s, I will allow you and Cain to remain here in Bath on a limited income. Until such time as I have restored some of our finances, you will move to a more affordable side of town, and you will learn to use what little money we have left. You will live within your means.”

 Kurt sputtered, suddenly desperate,

 “Charles,” he begged, stepping closer and reaching out a hand, “after all these years, after all I’ve done for you? This is how you repay me?”

 Charles felt something harden within his chest, a steel resolve that straightened his spine and narrowed his eyes.

 “After all you’ve done for me? Eight years ago you tore my life apart. You threatened and coerced me into giving up the only thing I’ve ever wanted for myself. You made me afraid and ashamed of who I am.” He shook his head. “I was too easily persuaded. But I am no longer the weak 16-year-old boy who was afraid of you and of being different. I am tired of being afraid.”

 He left Kurt alone in the silence of the library. He should have felt some kind of triumph or relief, but instead he only felt a growing desperation. There was only one clear question in the flurried panic of his mind: Where had Erik gone?

 Already the kiss in the library felt like it had been part of another life, but it was a life he wanted desperately. He only hoped he had not lost Erik for a second time, for surely this time would be the last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was really tricky because the original letter by Jane Austen is one of the most beautiful and romantic things ever written....I highly recommend reading it, and when you do, you'll see how many lines I stole from it :DD


	11. Union

After a frantic visit to the Admiral’s accommodations in Bath, Charles discovered from Ruth that Erik was staying in a boarding house on the far side of town.

He arrived outside of Erik’s door just as the sun was setting and the streets were growing dark. For all his panic, his frantic race across town knowing that every extra moment meant a chance for Erik to slip away, now that he had arrived at his destination he found he couldn’t bring himself to knock upon the door. What if Erik was gone? What if Erik was there but did not wish to see him? What if he turned Charles away, cold and aloof as though the past few weeks of gentle reconciliation, the letter that was burning a hole in his pocket, had been nothing more than a beautiful surreal dream?

Charles had been a coward for a very long time.  _Time to be brave_ , he thought, and knocked upon the door.

  There was a long drawn out pause where Charles stood swallowing around his own heart before Erik opened the door. The room beyond was dark and shadowed, lit only with candles and a low fire in the hearth, and within the gloom Erik looked ethereal and untouchable. His expression was muted, but he pushed the door open wider so that Charles might enter, and Charles felt an answering bloom of hope at the gesture.

As Erik retreated to stand next to the hearth, Charles realized he was only in his shirt and breeches and the long, pale column of his bare throat distracted him completely. There was something wild about Erik, something that was more at home outdoors than bound in restrictive waistcoats and cravats and pacing the confines of four walls. As a young man Erik would lose pieces of his wardrobe as the day wore on until he was in almost nothing at all. It used to drive Charles mad, each new glimpse of skin, each slowly discovered part of him; as Erik turned to face him on bare feet, the vulnerable bones of his ankles flowing into the smooth muscle of his calf, Charles realized it still did.

It amazed him that Erik could command a room in nothing but his shirt sleeves and breeches while Charles, braced for battle in layers of cloth, felt naked and exposed. They stared at each other for a long moment before Erik folded his hands behind his back. 

“So that’s it then. One kiss every eight years is all I can expect from you.”

The words burned through him, but he remained on his feet. He deserved all that and more from Erik, but he had come too far to allow Erik to run him off with cruel words.

“I told Kurt that when I take over the estate, he will be given an allowance and nothing more. He no longer has control over my life.”

“You would give him money?” Erik sneered, “After years of abuse at his hands, after what he did to us—“ he broke off and turned toward the fire.

“I will not forgive a man who abused a defenceless child. For that he can atone with whatever god exists after his death. But what Kurt did to us, a part of that guilt sits at my feet as well, and so I cannot condemn him for that.” There was no response from Erik, though Charles watched his shoulders sink, his spine soften in response.

“The money,” Charles continued softly, “is to buy his silence. So that…so that we might have a chance to be together.” He swallowed. “If that’s still what you want.”

Erik froze, and when he turned to look at Charles his face was a mask of astonishment. Charles couldn’t help but smile, some of the mad joy he felt that afternoon upon reading the letter returning to him.

“Must you really look so shocked?” He asked, “Don’t you know I’ve loved you since I was sixteen?” To his own ears his voice sounded unbearably earnest.

“There were times I was sure you hated me for how I left,” Erik replied, his eyes still wide and fixed on Charles. “For the things I said.”

“Then let me be clear,” Charles replied, taking one step closer to Erik into the ring of light cast by the fire. “There wasn’t a day in the past eight years that I did not love you. There was not one day that I did not think of you, or hate myself for letting you go.”

Erik swayed toward him, said:

 “We were children then. We both made mistakes. Listening to you today, I realized that I had been clinging to pain from another life.” He shook his head. “I realized that something I had wanted for years was sitting before me and…and I thought you might feel the same.” His body softened in a rush and he moved as though to step forward.

“Charles—“

“I’m still afraid.” Charles choked out, wanting more than ever to be clear and honest though the words ached as they were ripped from his throat. “We’ll never be like other people. I’ll never be able to take your hand in public. I’ll never be able to—kiss you—“ he broke off.

“I don’t care,” Erik said, voice low and ruined, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. “I don’t care about any of that. I don’t care if I can only be with you within these walls, out of sight.” He came to Charles then, moving across the room at a stumble and gripping him painfully tight around the shoulders.

“I spent eight years of my life without you. If there is a chance, any chance, of having you now, I will take it. At whatever cost.”

 Charles made a sound that was more of a sob than an exhalation of air and crushed himself against Erik’s body. Erik’s hands went from gripping his arms to winding around his back and they held onto each other tight, Charles’ hands clutching onto Erik’s waist, his face pressed close against the bare skin of his throat where he could feel the rapid pulse of Erik’s heartbeat against his skin.

It took more than a few moments to calm his mind, to realize that this perfect moment was reality—that those were Erik’s hands twisted tightly into the fabric of his coat, that it was Erik’s body pressed warm and firm against him, and that the fire in the hearth was more than one piece of a bright and vivid dream.

He leaned back slowly when the moment changed from grounding and meditative to one of anticipation. The longer they were attached to one another, the more Charles realized how long he had been dreaming of this very moment, and with that realization came the awakening of something animal inside of him, something that pulsated with a long awaited desire and a kind of yearning that demanded satisfaction.

He tilted his head back and when his eyes met with Erik’s he saw the same desire echoed there. He leaned forward and touched his mouth to Erik’s, kissing him softly and slowly, drawn out and lingering until Erik’s breath shuddered and he was gasping for air. His hands moved to cup Charles’ face, his long fingers digging into the sharp bone of Charles’ jaw, and he kissed him fiercely again and again until Charles was swooning, was held upright only by those beautiful hands on his face.

“Charles,” Erik murmured against his mouth, and his hands moved to the silk of Charles’ cravat where he tugged on it impatiently. Charles reached up to unwind the cloth, but his hands were shaking and the knots he had tied and untied countless times were suddenly impossible obstacles. Erik smiled and gently pushed his hands away, his long fingers easing the silk apart and unwinding it until the last of the cloth slipped free. He dropped it carelessly to the floor while the thumb of his other hand remained on Charles’ skin to trace a gentle pattern up and down. Charles shivered and shut his eyes, allowed Erik to tilt his face back so that he could slip in close and press his mouth against the sensitive skin of his throat. At the first touch of his lips Charles moaned, his hands coming up to grip Erik’s hair tightly between his fingers.

As Erik layered kisses across his skin, behind his ear and over his pulse point, at the join of his shoulder and in the hollow of his throat, his clever fingers began to work on the buttons of Charles’ waistcoat. Charles felt the give of material, allowed Erik to push it off his shoulders and down his arms. He pulled at Erik’s hair, directed his attention upwards again as his mind slipped into a kind of daze that was drowning in thoughts of kissing Erik again and again without pause.

 Erik answered him eagerly and as their mouths met again, his hands pulled at Charles shirt until it was free of his breeches and he could slip his hands inside. They both moaned when Erik’s calloused fingertips met the soft, untouched skin of Charles’ waist, the ladder of his ribs. Charles chanced a gentle bite against the narrow swell of Erik’s lower lip and when he made a desperate sound in response, Charles gently slipped his tongue inside his mouth. He had kissed others before, especially in the flighty, carefree days of his youth, but he had never kissed anyone like this, never wet and hungry and demanding. Even the brief, incandescent moments when he had finally kissed Erik the first time paled in comparison to this. Perhaps it was because before they had been so young and untried. They had fumbled together, had only been gifted a handful of kisses before Kurt had discovered them, before everything had fallen into ruin.

 These kisses now, the way Erik responded and pushed back, the way their hands were almost frantic but also confident and possessive, Charles knew that this was not the fragile, tentative love of their youth. This was a love that had borne a great trial and survived, and could weather any further hardship or attack.

 He felt buoyed up by the thought and was suddenly overcome by a blissful joy that filled him to the brim, pressed every ounce of that joy into each kiss. When Erik drew back to catch his breath, Charles laughed, caught Erik’s face in his hands and kissed him high on his cheek once and then again, looped his arms around his neck and stood on his toes to look directly into Erik’s eyes.

 The expression on Erik’s face told him that he was full of the same wonderment, the same incredulous bliss and he swiftly kissed Charles again before gripping him by the waist and directing him backwards toward the low cot in the corner.

 Erik eased him down onto the bed and drew back. With heavy eyes locked on Charles he knelt at his feet, pulled one heavy boot off and then the other, slowly rolled his stockings down his calves to slip them off his feet. Each time his fingers grazed the sensitive skin of Charles’ ankles, his toes, Charles felt his breath catch in his throat.

 As Erik tossed the last stocking over his shoulder, Charles grasped the loose collar of his shirt and pulled him onto the bed. Erik crawled over him and propped himself up on hands and knees, dipped his head to place a kiss on Charles’ mouth. When he drew back they took a moment to look each other over, and Charles felt a sharp jolt through his stomach at the sight of Erik’s face hovering above him, cheeks flushed, auburn hair falling over his forehead. He looked young and painfully familiar.

 “We’ve never been here before,” Charles said, his voice low and penetrating in the quiet hush of the room. “Almost, but not quite.”

 Erik smiled and lowed himself so that their bodies were pressed together, took Charles’ hands in his own and stretched them above his head. He held him there, brought his mouth to Charles’ ear and whispered,

 “In my dreams I’ve had you here a thousand times,” 

 Charles squeezed his eyes shut and turned his face to find Erik’s mouth again, kissing him fiercely.

 A little noise escaped from the back of Erik’s throat, and Charles’ hips flexed up into him in response. Clumsily he wrestled his legs out from under Erik’s body and wrapped one around his waist, digging the toes of the other into the mattress for leverage. As they moved against one another Charles felt flushed and wanton, achingly full of Erik’s smell and taste and still desperate for more.

 Erik sat back abruptly and began pulling his shirt from his breeches, and Charles sat up to help him, the two of them together stripping Erik from the waist up. Suddenly there was an entire world for Charles to explore, the valley of Erik’s collarbone, the faded scars and freckles, the tense muscle of his stomach. Charles hands drifted everywhere, but the stretch of skin over Erik’s heart was where he placed his mouth, lingering and reverent. It was a moment of peace in the middle of a maelstrom, Erik peeling Charles out of his own shirt before pushing him back to the lumpy, uneven mattress and kissing a line down the center of his chest and stomach.

 When he reached the high waistband of Charles’ breeches, he fumbled to unbutton them, and Charles could see how his hands were shaking, could feel the answering tremor in his own body and when Erik reached inside and gripped him tight he had to clutch onto the sheets, felt as though he were bursting into a million pieces of light and glass. He felt Erik shift so that he was lying over him again, saw the outline of him from behind closed eye lids, his hand moving Charles slowly but inexorably toward a bright light on the horizon.

 “Open your eyes,” Erik murmured, and when Charles failed to respond, eyes squeezed shut, mind spinning miles and miles away, he asked again, “Look at me Charles. Please.” The sound of his voice finally penetrated and Charles forced his eyes open. It was like looking into the sun, Erik’s face radiant and luminous, his eyes like twin flames below his brows. And he was smiling, he was looking down at Charles and smiling and Charles knew that he had never been as happy as he was now, had never been truly alive until this moment.

 Erik’s hand squeezed and twisted and Charles came with a loud, drawn out cry, his hands coming up to clutch at Erik’s bare shoulders. The lights had barely faded from his vision before Erik was on him again, catching his mouth in a fervent kiss, arms coming under and around him to clutch him close. Charles shook off his lethargy, dragged his hands down the sharp arrow of Erik’s spine to grip his hips, and then his backside, palming the flesh and urging him into motion.

 Erik tucked his face into the curve of Charles’ shoulder and dragged the line of his heavy cock against Charles’ thigh. Charles was suddenly full of ideas of what to do with him, of the infinite nights they would have together to explore one another, to find out all the things Erik liked and how to drive him wild, but before he could put any of these ideas into motion Erik was coming, his hips jerking once, twice, and then a last time before he collapsed against Charles, his breath damp and hot against Charles’ skin.

 When he had recovered, Erik rolled off of him but kept Charles close, one hand tucked beneath his head the other slowly combing through Charles’ hair. Charles felt soothed and so at ease he nearly drifted off, but couldn’t seem to draw his eyes away from the warmth of Erik’s expression, the tenderness of his gaze. 

"You can sleep," Erik said quietly, the softness of his voice matching the declining light of the room as the fire burned low and night slipped in behind closed curtains. 

Charles watched Erik through heavily eyelids and struggled to comprehend how much had changed in such a brief amount of time. Somehow his entire universe had shifted in the matter of a day. 

"How do I know that I’m not asleep right now?" He curled his body closer to Erik’s, reached out and wound an arm around his back. "This seems too much like a dream."

Erik pulled him closer still and tucked their feet together, rested his brow against the crown of Charles’ head so that when he spoke his words brushed through his hair like a summer breeze. Like the wind through an apple orchard in a distant memory. 

"I’ll be here when you wake up," Erik whispered, "I promise."

And Charles fell asleep wondering how he ever managed to do it alone. 

 


	12. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much to everyone who read and left comments and kudos, and liked and reblogged over on tumblr!! I really appreciate it, you guys don't even know!! Thanks especially to pan who looked over this last chapter for me, to madneto who was my go-to regency yoda, to roz for helping me work through certain challenges in revising the original story, and to my sweet, darling ike who forced me to write this and was my personal cheerleader the entire way through! THANKS TO EVERYONE! <3333
> 
> This epilogue is set about one year after the last chapter of the main story...

When Charles goes missing, Erik knows where to find him.

Unfortunately, that doesn't always mean he can go and track him down. As much as he sometimes begrudges it, duty must come first. While the ship is anchored he has to run routine checks of the rigging and sails, has to ensure that any tears are mended and that the masts are oiled and carefully looked over. It's easy for the crew to get distracted while they are close to port and easily accessible liquor and women, so Erik makes sure to keep them on task, tarring the deck, painting the hull--large, difficult tasks that are slightly more pleasant to complete in the Caribbean sun than they are in the wet and cold of England.

It's long, tedious, necessary work and at the end of the day, Erik is as eager to escape it as the rest of the crew.

When he's cut loose from his responsibilities, he rows out to shore, heads across the sand to where the island is wild and uninhabited and there he knows he'll find Charles digging through dirt or wading out into the ocean, or climbing trees to commune with the local wildlife.

Today Erik finds him crouched low over a warm, shallow pool, weathered notebook in hand as he takes careful notes. He's forgotten his hat again and his hair is wild, tousled by the sea air and dyed auburn from the sun. Erik watches as he absently brushes the curling strands away from his face, rubs at his nose where his skin has almost finished peeling from the last sunburn, his focus fixated on his book and the pool of water at his feet.

"What did you find today?" Erik asks as he approaches, smiling when Charles startles and then beams up at him.

"Erik! Come and see!" He beckons Erik forward, and Erik, helpless as he always is in the face of Charles enthusiasm, draws close and crouches down next to him.

"Look," Charles says, pointing down into the water. There are small fish swimming in slow circles beneath the surface, the bright yellow of their scales reflecting off the stone basin of their pool. Erik glances at Charles' notebook and sees he's captured their likeness as meticulously as he has every other creature he's encountered on the island.

"Look at their pectoral fins," he says, his voice full of awe. Erik happens to think all fish are just...fish, but he tries to look attentive and appropriately impressed.

Charles gives him a look that says he knows Erik is feigning interest.

"See how they're using their fins to turn?" He gestures at one of the fish that dips and then shoots across the pool, "It's possible that their pectoral fins could be homologous with the forelimbs of tetrapods..."

Erik hasn't a clue what he's talking about, but his expression is bright with excitement and it makes something tighten within his chest to see Charles so happy. So he smiles and nods and settles down next to him to observe the fish for a while.

He sits with Charles until he completes his drawing and then hoists him to his feet, ignores his protests about staying a few minutes longer on the beach.

"When was the last time you ate?" he asks, laughing when Charles ponders this and then ruefully capitulates with a pout.Though Charles is one of the most brilliant men he's ever met, it's hard to take him seriously when his face is flushed and covered with freckles from the sun and his frown makes Erik want to bite at the swell of his lower lip.

They get waylaid more than once on the walk back, Charles tugging Erik here and there to show him all the marvels he's discovered. By the time they make it back to the ship the majority of the men are on board and heading down to the mess, and they get sidetracked again as Charles stops to talk with everyone. Erik would be annoyed if he wasn't sure that much of Charles' sense of wonder and excitement and eagerness to talk stems from being alone for a long time.

The men find Charles an oddity, but an amusing one, and he's swiftly become something of a favourite aboard the ship. So many of the cabin boys and deck hands are young men, children really, and like motherless chicks they began to flock to Charles who eagerly showered them with knowledge, going so far as to hold court as professor in the evenings after their duties were done.

Sometimes Erik wishes it were just the two of them on the ship, but he cannot begrudge Charles the extra company, nor the chance to show off, not when it makes him so happy. Still, he finds that every day becomes a ticking clock, counting down to the hour when he shuts his cabin door behind them and he and Charles are alone, looking at each other in the faded lamplight, the gentle rocking of the ship urging them into each other's arms.

Sometimes they play a game of chess, or talk into the light grey hours of early morning. Sometimes Charles reads aloud to Erik like he used to when they were children, slowly stroking his fingers through Erik's hair until Erik thinks he's never known such peace. But more often than not the two of them crash together like waves, sometimes rough and insatiable, a frenzied storm or inescapable undertow drawing them towards one another. Sometimes it is the gentle back and forth of a calm sea, back and forth like breathing.

Erik stands by, watching idle and amused as Charles shows a ruddy Irish deckhand his drawing of fish. Cassidy looks genuinely interested, but before they can spiral into a discussion about marine biology Erik interrupts with an abrupt clearing of his throat.

The boy seems to realize that his Captain is standing at his right hand, and he straightens promptly and chops off a hasty salute.

“At ease sailor,” Erik replies dryly, and before Charles can get started again he says, “Check the rigging before you head below deck,” and drags Charles away.

“I’m sure the rigging is fine,” Charles protests, but Erik only ushers him into the Captain’s cabin and seals the door shut behind him. Something about the day, the length of the hours, the company of the men, the sight of Charles on that beach, has left him with an ache in his belly, a desire to be alone with Charles and hidden away from the rest of the world.

Charles must see some of this reflected in his gaze because he says, “Oh,” and then beckons Erik closer to where he stands in the center of the room in between the shafts of golden twilight slipping in through the port windows.

Erik had often wondered over the years what Charles might be like in bed. In his fantasies, Charles had vacillated wildly from a puritanical virgin who would shy away from Erik’s hands, to an arrogant lord as demanding in bed as he sometimes had been as a child. He should have known that Charles would approach sex in the same way he approached everything else in life: with wonder and curiosity, and an enthusiastic desire to investigate every part of it until he had the subject mastered.

On this evening, Charles applies himself to the fine art of sucking cock, something he has mastered beautifully though Erik will never begrudge him the practice. He can only imagine what polite society might think about the two of them, of the way Charles licks a slow line upwards before wrapping his gorgeous mouth around the tip of Erik’s cock, sucking at him gently until Erik growls and then begs him to move.

They pause to light the lanterns, the both of them sweaty and hard and casting each other dark, heavy lidded glances from across the room, and then Erik has Charles under him, his chest pressed close to the curve of Charles' back. He grips his hips tightly and thrusts into him until Charles has to bite into the pillow to stifle his moans, though surely the crew couldn’t hear them over the camaraderie above deck, the sounds of laughter and a squeezebox tune, the clatter of dice and coins on wood.

Afterwards Erik pulls on his trousers and shirt and makes himself decent enough to open the door and grab the tray of food Armando has left for them on the floor outside. Typically the officers eat together, served at a separate table from the crew and waited upon. Erik had dispensed with that formality as soon as he had been promoted to Captain and his men are well-accustomed to it. Normally Erik eats in the mess hall along with everyone else, but this voyage, this particular voyage his crew has also become accustomed to Captain Lehnsherr and their resident scientist taking their dinner in their quarters just the two of them.

Charles has his own quarters, a small room located down the hall, but he rarely ever makes it there. As Erik slips back into the room, tray in hand, and looks over to the bed he sees exactly why. Charles is sitting cross legged on the mussed sheets in only his shirtsleeves, the collar gaping and barely clinging onto one shoulder, the loose material gathered in his lap barely preserving his modesty. Charles is smiling at him and his face in the lamplight, his large, luminous eyes, are so lovely and beloved, how could Erik ever bare to let him go, even for a single night?

Charles eagerly digs into the food as soon as Erik sets it in front of him and Erik smiles a bit smugly.

“So you were hungry.”

Charles grins at him from over the rim of his wine glass.

“Well, I am now that I've worked up an appetite.”

Erik rolls his eyes, and the scene is suddenly reminiscent of their time as young men, Erik’s fond exasperation, Charles’ semi-indecent comments, the two of them picking food off each other’s plate and tucked together in bed as thick as thieves.

After eating they play a half-hearted game of chess that ends with Charles accusing Erik of cheating as an excuse to tackle him to the bed, scattering the wooden chess pieces everywhere. They lie tangled in the sheets and kiss each other with vigour, with fingers pressed tightly into flesh, but soon enough the frenzy abates and grows languorous and lazy until they are just brushing their lips together and whispering goodnight.

In the morning Erik wakes to find Charles curled on the floor with one of his many cumbersome textbooks. He’s leaning against the bed just close enough for Erik to reach out and brush a hand over his hair, to lean forward and kiss him good morning.

Already he can hear the men moving about above deck. There was a time when he would be up early enough to watch the sun rise, to observe the men stumbling bleary eyed and stiff with the last night’s alcohol into the morning light. Now instead of allowing his work to consume him, he feels a constant desire to linger in his quarters, to make up for lost time.

Doing his duty is made significantly more pleasurable with Charles watching him wash and shave, standing to help him get dressed, his hands lingering over each button, each fold of cloth. There is something perverse, Erik thinks, about being in full uniform while Charles is dressed only in his shirt, his long, pale legs on full display as he stretches up on his toes to give Erik a kiss. Erik wants nothing more than to put Charles’ hard work to ruin, strip down and tumble him back into bed, but before he can Charles steps away and tosses him a grinning, sloppy salute.

“Ready to serve, Captain.”

Erik pokes at him with his hat to make him yelp and then kisses him again before dragging himself out of the room and up into the hot, Caribbean sun.

When Charles joins him on the Quarterdeck after a short while, Erik is surprised. Usually he’s lost Charles to the island by now. But as Charles comes to stand next to him, he doesn't question it, or turn him away. Erik is unsure if the men understand the true nature of his relationship with Charles, but there has been no gossip or discord thus far, and no one looks up when Charles leans close enough into Erik that their shoulders brush. Distantly, Erik thinks they should be more careful, but he can’t bring himself to begrudge Charles anything, especially not such an easy, casual intimacy like this.

  
And when Charles reaches for Erik’s hand along the railing, concealed behind their backs, Erik takes it immediately and holds it tightly. Out here, out in the middle of nowhere, there is only the sea to bear witness.


End file.
